


A Father's Questions

by Be_Inspired



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Brock Rumlow Recruited Into Avengers, Bucky/Rumlow Soon, Father-Son Awkward Moments, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Natasha Romanov Lives, Peter-centric, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Tony Stark Lives, protective Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2020-09-07 13:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_Inspired/pseuds/Be_Inspired
Summary: Steve Rogers notices how Peter and Rumlow almost never coexist in the same interactive field within the Avengers Building. Weird thing is, Peter has never dropped a building on top of Rumlow and Rumlow has never tried to kill Peter before. Yet, the distant in between those two is no two arms length. Its thousand miles away.And he sure does hope he isn’t like that delusional movie character from A beautiful Mind.Imagine his surprise when the truth strike him like Thor’s thunderbolt that Peter is Rumlow’s son.Imagine his agony as he watches those depressingly awkward moments between Peter and Rumlow. Captain America feels like crying.





	1. A Secret That Everybody Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Watched Avengers-Endgame. A bit depressing for me.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

They almost never have spoken to each other. Steve noticed it. He wasn’t inquisitive man by nature like Natasha, but the telltale was almost too impossible to ignore.

When Rumlow was in the room, Peter was nowhere to be seen. When Peter was in the vicinity, Rumlow was nowhere to be seen. It’s like they couldn’t even share the same air.

Once—minus Tony because little Morgan was having a fever so Tony took her to the clinic—everyone attended a meeting. That time, within the span of half an hour, Peter looked like he couldn’t bear in his own skin. He fidgeted, he fiddled with the zip of his bag pack and he kept on making this infuriating sniffling noise. On his side, Rumlow looked like someone who had his pants on fire.

Everyone was on edge. Everyone noticed, even if Rumlow maintained his asholish-like expression throughout the meeting.

Then Clint fell off from the chair. Well, that’s his problem.

On a brighter side, bringing Rumlow into the Avengers was a fair decision despite the initial resistance from the team. Almost all of them have served either the military or special unit, but none of them as long as Rumlow who spent decades climbing ranks and working in a solid unit consisting dozens of multi-character personnel. Both Steve and Bucky spent years in the ice, so their actual years of walking on land was probably half of Rumlow’s age. Natasha and Tony were lone wolves and more comfortable working alone. So when it came to extensive tactical strategy, military and warfare, Rumlow’s insight was highly valuable. 

Plus, Rumlow’s burnt skin and physical damage were healed magnificently like no single building was dropped on him. Dr. Cho was indeed a miracle worker. 

Thing was, Peter interacted with everyone else—except Rumlow—normally. Loud and inquisitive. He was in everyone’s conversation. Clint was fond of the kid considering his age was close to his daughter and even Sam, well, Sam tolerated having Peter bouncing around him like hyperactive children. 

Rumlow on the other hand, interacted with other team members—except Peter—as normal as he could muster. He grunted few words during casual talks and didn’t frown during mission briefing. He saved some coffee for Steve in the morning although the blond had technically dropped a building plus S.H.I.E.L.D Helicarrier on the former S.T.R.I.K.E Commander. He lent Wanda English Literature books even though in Lagos, she almost blew him into pieces and he didn’t snap Sam’s bones into three different ways during training. In Steve eyes, social improvement among Avengers was still on the right path.

Except for Peter and Rumlow.

… They did spoke to each other eventually, but in the most inconvenient situation in everyone’s mind.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

That first time when Rumlow was seen speaking to Peter when there was a ten-inch shrapnel lodged deep into the Spiderman’s abdomen with at least three inches of it buried into his left upper quadrant.

Everything happened too fast for anyone to anticipate the second explosive to go off. The impact sent those who were close away with minor bruise and ringing ears or cracked ribs, but not Peter. He was hit at point blank. Worse, the device was constructed with a piece of technology that damaged the integrity of Spiderman’s suit. By the time Steve got there, still nursing his ringing ears, Peter was already on the ground, mask gone. Rumlow had the youngest head cradled in his arms and he was shouting something, like getting the Quinjet ready and the medical team ready in the Avengers building.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, kid.” Between the shouting, Rumlow was seen whispering close to Peter’s forehead while Peter was chocking and coughing blood. In that position, the former S.T.R.I.K.E Commander could put a good amount of pressure on the wound without agitating the shrapnel further although it was clear that the teen was losing blood, too much for Steve to agree. He couldn’t speak because everytime he tried to open his mouth, they were greeted not with words, but blood.

“Talk to me, people. What’s the damage? I lost the com with Karen.” Tony’s voice rang at the end of the channel. Being the consultant to the team, Tony was rarely seen on the field, but he followed their progress closely.

They were in some kind of uncharted island in eastern Caribbean Sea and Steve somehow wished for the genius to be there at the moment.

“Shrapnel hosing and deep in his upper quadrant by three inches. Breath sounds bilaterally, a bit muffled, palpable pulse and losing blood.” Rumlow reported into the open channel.

“Where’s Rumanoff?”

Few meters away, Natasha closing in despite the obvious wince she was making with every step she made. “On my way.”

In Rumlow’s arms, Peter forced another cough and new spurt of blood dribbled down his mouth and stained his suit. “You’re alright, Peter. We’ll get you back to the building and they’re going to fix you all nice and good in no time.” The man whispered those soothing words as he pressed his forehead gently against Peter’s. It looked like he wanted to connect. It looked like he wanted to ease the pain. And with occasional convulse, the teen grabbed the hand that was pressing against his bleeding wound.

Steve watched the interaction with mild confusion. It was affectionate if not protective.

Natasha slid in and immediately kneeled next to Rumlow, sending sand and dust and multiple particles into the air. Then Tony’s voice came in. “Alright, Romanoff. You know what to do. Use the beads.”

The spy exhaled. “Well, I’m not a doctor, but I’ll do my best.” She then beckoned for Rumlow to remove his hand. “Give me some space, Commander.”

When Natasha made a motion for the shrapnel, Rumlow went to full alert. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m going to take it out.”

“The shrapnel?”

“Yeah.”

Another hand clasped around Natasha’s wrist, firm and warning. “You take that out, he’ll bleed to death.”

“Which is why I need you to trust me.” Natasha said when the hand around his wrist didn’t move. “Whatever this thing is, it managed to mess up with his suit that Tony made. I don’t trust that thing to be inside Peter any longer that it should have been.” She reasoned further.

“Brock, I need you to trust me on this.” The spy repeated again, raising both eyebrows.

Rumlow closed his eyes and sighed. Slowly, the grip on Natasha’s wrist loosened and her hand went for the shrapnel. She gave a look at Brock when Peter, mid conscious, began panicking the moment he noticed the spy’s intention.

“It’s fine.” Rumlow shushed the teen and Peter’s hand, slippery with his own blood, went feebly to pull on the man’s sleeve. “It’s going to hurt but you gotta trust her. You gotta trust me, boy. Alright? Can you do that?”

In pain, Peter swallowed, more blood than saliva. He nodded slowly.

Rumlow nodded and gave Natasha the signal.

“I am so sorry about this.” Was she said before she pulled out the piece in one quick tug.

As anticipated, Peter groaned and jolted, but quickly held down by Rumlow with Steve’s help. Blood seeped through his nano suit, soaking the fabric, Rumlow’s pants and the hands and the ground beneath him. Steve was a soldier and he’s been in too many wars, inhaled too many smoke and watched too many blood spills. But the sight, the smell of the blood—the kid’s blood—, that tangy metallic scent triggered something unpleasant at the back of his mind. He could feel the bale raising. He could feel the bitter taste touching the back of his tongue.

It almost caught him by surprise.

In a swift movement, Natasha threw the shrapnel away and clicked open the pouch resting by her waist. A small bead, dark silver in color, almost glowing, flopped into her open palm before the spy gently inserted the bead into the open wound. Ever so slowly, the bead formed an interlocking around the cut, easing down the blood flow while Steve and Rumlow watched in awe.

“Wakanda miracle.” Natasha murmured behind a relief smile, more so when Peter’s lithe frame stopped convulsing. “A little present from Princess Shuri. This should help to stabilize Peter long enough for him to get treatment.”

Rumlow’s tense expression softened as he watched Peter closed his eyes and focused on his breathing instead of the pain and the shock his body previously experiencing. They still came out a bit labored, his breathing, but at a tolerable degree.

“Alright people,” Tony was back at the end of the channel. “The medical team is all geared up here, hot and ready to go. I’ve beeped the surgeons and they’ll be here any moment now.”

“Dr. Cho?”

“Including her. So you guys better bring the kid back quickly. Chop chop people.”

At the other end of the channel, Clint spoke. “The Quinjet is ready, Cap. Want me to bring the kid first?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve breathed out. “You guys go first. The rest of us still need to stay and do some clean up, whatever necessary.” The super soldier then turned to Natasha, then to Rumlow. “You two go ahead, with him.” He beckoned at Peter. Remove the blood, the dirt and the torn suit, the teen now looked as if he was sleeping and something about the situation made his stomach clenched.

There was no room for argument, not that there was any to begin with. They move quickly afterwards, bringing Peter into the Quinjet and within minutes, the plane left the solid ground of the island.

As Steve stood there, watching the Quinjet’s retreating back, warm, light breeze tousling his blond strand to the side, the man felt like he was breathing an air of melancholy.

Even when sun kissed leaves floated through the air and danced around him, Steve couldn’t find peace. 

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Back in the Avengers building, Peter was still in the operation theater when Steve caught Rumlow outside the washroom. There were only two of them while the others were in the medical room, having their injuries examined by medical staffs. The former commander had just finished washing the blood and grime off his hands and Steve was still in his suit. A tad insensitive, but at least the blond didn’t decide to catch the man over dinner and pasta.

“What?” Not looking at Steve, Rumlow grunted and focused more on drying his hands.

Leaning against the wall, arms across his chest, the blond thread his words carefully. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No.”

There. Rumlow left no room for further discussion.

“His head was in your arms.” Steve pressed in. In a way, he felt like a wife trying to pin her husband for cheating with off state bimbo.

“It was.” Shoulders dropped, Rumlow heaved a sigh while still maintaining his focus on the invisible dirt on the ceiling. “I was keeping the kid’s head up to keep him from chocking.”

It wasn’t enough to fill the tiny little gaps called loophole.

“Look,” Steve peeled his back away from the wall and took a step closer, but still outside an arm length, just in case if Rumlow decided to smack him across the face. “I don’t intent to pry any secret and I respect the privacy of my teammates.”

“So why are we having this conversation?”

There was a moment of fleeting silence before the super soldier opened his mouth again. “I’m just saying, if there’s something that you’re holding back, that could get in between the integrity of teamwork, you need to tell me.”

Rumlow narrowed his eyes. From where the man was standing, his eyes caught the dim lighting of the hallway and reflected it in an eerie dark glow. If there’s anything, it was intimidating enough to shake Steve in the core. “Like what?” The words came out in between clenched teeth.

“Like what is going on between you and Peter.”

“Why do you keep bringing him up?”

“Because whatever it is between the two of you, it doesn’t make any sense!” In exasperation, the words came out few notes higher than Steve had intended to. He could hear the footfalls behind him, but the blond was too far gone to care. “A lot of time, both of you look like you couldn’t be inside the same room. But then you call him Peter. His first name.”

The former HYDRA agent tossed the towel to the floor, tilted his head and gave Steve a look. “Because that’s his name.”

“You have never spoken to each other.” A hand was placed on his shoulder. Probably Natasha. Or Tony. But Steve’s focus has gathered into one single spot and that single spot unfortunately landed on the person who wanted him dead the most. With hope, the homicidal intent didn’t stay around long. “But the way you acted back there, you were holding and talking to him in—”

As he paused, Steve pinched his lips together, again, threading his next words carefully in his mouth. Then, he continued, “In—”

“If you say intimate, I’m going to punch you, Cap.” Rumlow warned.

“—a protective and paternal way.”

Suddenly, the hallway, metaphorically speaking, turned into a graveyard. No one said anything. Muted silence filled the air. And when the words—his last words—finally kicked the gear inside his head—and everyone’s head in fact—, only then Steve realized that he had just stepped into the uncharted territory of his teammate. More so when the look that Rumlow was pointing at him was enough to make him flinch.

“Well, Cap,” Rumlow’s voice sounded almost casual, but pained too. “I imagine anyone would act like that when he sees his kid lying in his own pool of blood.”

Steve couldn’t muster enough nerve to stop Rumlow from walking away in silence.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

“Shit.” Captain America swore under his breath the moment Rumlow rounded the corner of the hallway. The realization has left him a bit shaken, a bit conflicted, a bit almost everything. Few words, too much information, and right now, all those gears that were furiously spinning and working had fried.

Hand covering his mouth, Steve turned to see Natasha resting her side against the wall. Few others has joined her and like him, shocked mapped across their face.

“You knew about this?”

“He made me promise not to tell.” Natasha drawled in a way that made her looked more like drunk Cheshire Cat, less like a super spy. 

“Tony?”

Now, Steve’s eyebrows have reached his blond hairline.

“I promised the kid not to tell a soul.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. The genius was nowhere within the vicinity, still working on the mystery behind the technology in the lab, or whatever left of it. Even so, without having Tony breathing the same air as the rest of the team, the man was practically living in everyone’s head. So Steve leveled that one person with exasperated look. Natasha.

“Guys.” Bruce cleared his throat. “Peter’s up. So whatever argument you guys are having…” He motioned the group with his hands, clearly unaware of the subject of the argument. Perhaps he was aware, but chose not to participate. “Better file it up for later.”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry.” Eyes closed momentarily, Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. How’s he?”

Bruce removed his glasses and held them in between in his fingers. “A little drowsy but alert. The spleen is in the bucket, not surprisingly. Which explain the massive blood lost so the team had to use almost twice the volume during the operation, but no more active bleeding. For now, the abdomen and skin are closed with standard closure. If Peter wants to do something with the skin, Dr. Cho can do it anytime tomorrow. So you guys want to see him..?”

“Sure.” Steve said in between hesitation. The feeling was unpleasant. Like he was about to see the headmaster about him flipping a girl’s skirt.

Well, he hoped everyone else felt the same. Meaning that, everyone was also flipping many skirts.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

“Fuck!”

Nothing met his outburst, even when Rumlow hit the wall with an open palm. The A.I, Friday, probably wouldn’t agree with the violence, but if she does, she was keeping it to herself. She would probably file it for later vengeance, but the man would deal with it later.

Another dull thump resounded throughout the empty room, once again filling every empty corner and every empty nook before harsh breaths ensued. Almost empty room, saved for Rumlow’s belongings scattered here and there. A room where he stayed everytime he decided to spend the night—or few night. In which, the former STRIKE Commander began to regret, because apparently, the more time he spent in Avengers building, the looser his tongue has became.

Right now, everybody knew.

On instinct, Rumlow looked down, one hand balancing his weight against the wall, and quickly, his vision narrowed on his pants. His cargo pants were black, so the change in color wouldn’t make any difference. But there were wet, from knees above and the man could feel the fabric stuck against his skin. It was uncomfortable. Worse, they were wet with blood. He smelt it, the sweet metallic scent that clung on his like it was his second skin.

In deliberate slowness, Rumlow felt the nausea blossoming from the pit of his stomach, felt his heart palpating with abandon, felt the room spinning out of control.

He barely made to the en-suit bathroom after slamming the door open with a loud bang, his combat boots made a squeaking noise against the tiled floor. The instant he reached the sink, Rumlow retched, painfully, for the second time. The first time was in the washroom before Captain America caught him. That time, he didn’t make it to the sink where he threw up into the trash can. Wave after wave, everything was pushed out without his consent, until he tasted the bitter acid coating the plane of his tongue.

On the third wave, Rumlow was left dry heaving as he coughed every last bit of whatever left in his stomach. Beads of cold sweat trickled down from his sideburn before rolling further down. His knuckles were white from gripping the sink too hard. When the heaving has subsided, he rinsed his mouth once with tap water and twice with mouth wash.

Turning the tap close, the man quickly peeled off his black shirt off, took off his combat boots and socks and kicked his pants away before stepping into the shower.

Hot and scalding, the water his skin blissfully in more than two ways. He relieved the way his skin felt and for a quick moment, everything was lifted from his shoulders, the messiness of life—HYDRA, Avengers, today— temporary replaced by tranquility of stillness.

Then he saw the crimson red, diluted by the water, trailing from his legs, swirled about the floor before disappearing into the drain. The nausea—the little shit which he thought he had locked in some corner—somewhat had escaped and now kicking inside his stomach. Tiny, little kick at first, before the force became more apparent.

Taking deep breaths which almost mimicked yoga breathing technique, Rumlow tilted his head up, letting the water hit his face.

That didn’t work. Rumlow threw up for the third time of the day.

**\--To Be Continued--**


	2. Who I was, What We Were

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Peter was clearly stable when the team went to see him, alert and closely monitored plus one unit of his blood type hanging next to his bed, slowly and steadily flushing into his vein. The color was finally back on his face, much better than the pale complexion and lack enthusiasm. He was on pain medication nevertheless.

“Hey, tough guy.” Natasha broke in first, inching closer to the bed.

Cracking his eyes open, Peter eyelashes fluttered a bit while he adjusted to the lighting. The system has adjusted for it to be as low but without losing visibility, but the teen still wince at what his eyes considered as harsh lighting.

“Just so you know,” The teen’s voice was a bit hoarse with a hint of slur in it. “I’m not wearing anything underneath. So please don’t come too close.”

One slim eyebrow rose. “Nothing I haven’t seen.” 

If his system wasn’t loaded with morphine, Peter’s eyes probably widened two fractions too large.

“I’m joking.”

With a relief sigh, Peter flopped back into the slightly inclined mattress. Even with closed eyes, the teen was listening to everything. Never once his senses gave in, in spite of his injuries. Every hitch of breath, every nervous shuffle, every trace of awkwardness. He was injured, but he wasn’t brain dead. It didn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

“You guys knew.” Peter opened his eyes and sighed.

“We just knew.” Steve confirmed, stuffing his hand into his pocket.

Another sighed. Peter looked like he wanted to curl underneath the sheet. Or maybe, it was steve who wanted to curl under the sheet. It was cold inside the room, and Steve couldn’t stop but notice the obvious goose bumps on the teen’s skin. “Things are so going to be awkward after this.”

“I imagine it would be damn awkward.” Back against the glass panel, Sam muttered. “You’re Rumlow’s kid and the fact that everyone here almost killed him. I mean, me and cap practically dropped a building and a hellicarrier on top of the guy.”

“Sam!” Steve looked at the other incredulously. “Not helping.”

“And I almost blew him up in Lagos.” Wanda had that guilty look as she covered her mouth. “Gods, I didn’t know back then and if Steve hadn’t stop—”

“Guys, stop, stop!” At the second ‘stop’, Peter winced in pain and Natasha quickly rushed to his side, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Few stuttered breaths left him in rush. The morphine tweaked with his brain and pain nerves, but it hasn’t dampened his common sense. “… just stop.”

“He needed to be stopped.” The teen said in deliberate slowness to punctuate his points. “And you did. You stopped him. That’s all.”

“Peter—”

“That’s all.” Peter repeated. “You gotta believe you did the right thing and move one or…” He pinched his lower lip in between his teeth. “Nobody here can. I didn’t want to say anything because… I don’t know. I just didn’t want things to get awkward I guess, for me, for him and you guys.”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t kick me out.”

Something kicked in the gut. Everyone felt it. It hurt. It made the blonde felt a bit… ass-holish.

“Nobody is kicking anyone out of team. Don’t’ worry about it. Right now, focus on getting better.” Steve saw the fisting and the clenching Peter was making. The teen was making it in fact, for the past two minutes. Plus, the heart rate reading was showing a rather concerning figure. He was in pain, he was in stress, clearly.

“You alright? Is it the stitches?”

Peter nodded softly.

“I’ll go get the doctor.” Sitting by the edge of the bed, Natasha nodded at Steve. He needed to find to find the doctor. He needed to find the doctor and he needed to breathe fresh air. Because Steve couldn’t bear having Peter’s eyes trained on him with a look that could absorb everything. The type of look that could reach into anyone’s soul.

If that were the case, Peter would have seen how jumpy and twitchy his soul was like a kid on sugar rush.

Steve left, found the doctor then proceeded to run to wherever his legs took him. This is crazy. A team member had almost bleed to death, and here he was, Captain America, running like a child sexual offender that was about to be caught be the police. Unbelievable.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

… Except that, one minutes later—he was a super soldier, for God’s sake—, he found himself on first floor balcony. He stopped at the kitchen first for a soda but that’s about it. And Rumlow was there as well, seeking safe haven, both hand holding on the rails to support his weight as he leaned forward. In his face, there was this brooding peace that Steve has seen more often in the faces of those sorrowful. Obviously he didn’t come there for tranquility, to listen the birds and wind breathed through his hair. No, obviously, the former commander was there to give few thought on those things that burned him to his bones.

“Hey.” Steve said. Well, he couldn’t exactly turn around, could he?

Rumlow didn’t say anything. But he did acknowledge by looking up, turned his body around only to have his back leaned against the rail, both elbows perched on the metal rod.

“Peter’s awake.” The blond informed. So far, Rumlow didn’t try to push him off the balcony, so Steve assumed the man wouldn’t breathe fire at him anytime soon. He looked fresh from shower, free from his usual tactical gear with slightly damp hair. Figured.

“I know.” Rumlow pointed upward with his eyes. “Friday told me.”

Steve nodded, not pressing further. He wasn’t ready for another confrontation, so leaving to him, was his best course of action.

“I made a deal,” Rumlow suddenly said and Steve stopped on his track. “With Pierce. Back there.”

That caught his attention and before long, the blonde spun on his heels, facing the former HYDRA agent.

His hand rubbed the side of his face unconsciously. There was no scar anymore and the nerves were repaired, mostly. But from time to time, Rumlow was still seen rubbing the skin. Perhaps his mind still held that memory of intense pain, before numbness took place.

“No matter what the circumstances are, Peter and his aunt would be excluded from the list.” The man said. His eyes were facing forward, although in truth, Rumlow was staring into nothing specific.

“Even if Zola Algorithm picked him up?”

Rumlow shrugged. “Even if the algorithm picked him up, list is a list. We can always tweak it.”

A slow and gentle wind swept by and in a distant, Steve could hear rustling of dead leaves collided against each other before landed on the ground. 

“I did believe I was doing the right thing, you know. I believed in HYDRA, in peace, in greater good.”

Two steps, and Steve closed in, leaning against the rail himself. “And now..?”

The words twirled and held inside his mouth before Rumlow sighed. “To be honest, I don’t know what to believe right now. I don’t even know what I’m doing. Obviously I’m not here because I believe in what you’re doing, but because you fellas were so intent in dragging me by my ankle into the team in the first place.”

Unseen by Rumlow—because Steve had his face turned slightly to the side—the corner of his lips twitched upward. Back there in Lagos, they—Or Steve—had meant to stop Crossbone, but the plan has been improvised from stopping to saving Rumlow instead. There were few hiccups, a little shouting here and there and initial exchanged fists. But those were in the past. At present, they could sit in a meeting together and at the end, no amputated arm lying on the floor.

Feeling a bit inquisitive, Steve poked the water slight. “Why none of you said anything? Why didn’t YOU say anything?”

“How could I?” Rumlow spread his arms. “I don’t want things get complicated. You obviously hell bent wanting me to stay on this ground and the kid,” He drag his hand over his face. “Peter doesn’t want to be anywhere but here. You take that away from him, it’ll kill him.”

“I won’t. But things are going to be awkward around here.”

“Things are already awkward between me and the kid, Cap.” Scratching the side of his head, Rumlow grumbled. His voice came out weak and weary.

“So I’ve noticed.” The blonde said, not daring to step further into the water. But he didn’t have, apparently, because Rumlow was in talkative mod at the moment.

“We ain’t close.” The former commander paused. “We’ve never been. I’m not the ‘every other weekend’ kind of father. I’m once in a blue moon kind of father. He knows I’m exist, but out of sight, out of mind.”

The former commander paused and looked up. It’s going to rain soon. But Steve kind of hoped it rains today. It would feel like white noise everywhere. Too loud but too silence at the same time.

“We were told that his parents died when he was young.”

“His foster parents died.” The other corrected. “They were old friends of mine. Died in a place crash. Kid already bonded with that family, with May. I didn’t want him to lose that bond.”

“Your wife?”

“Died before that.” Steve was about to open his mouth before Rumlow stopped him mid track. “I know what you’re thinking. Why I gave him away instead of raising him. Look, Peter is the best thing that ever happened to me. But he can’t with stay me.” The former HYDRA agent pinned him with a look that left Steve speechless. “There’s no way I could include him in my life if I want him to live long.”

Off its own volition, blond eyebrow rose slightly. “He’s Spiderman and he’s been to space before any of us.”

“When I decided that, Cap, I didn’t know he would one day swing from building to building and running away to alien planet in skin tight suit. Beside, his old man had already thrown his humanity down the toilet, don’t need the kid to follow his footsteps. Almost give me a fucking heart attack when I saw him in the building, Jesus.”

“He just wants to help.” Steve reasoned, sensing the lightest disagreement in the other’s tone. “No one can deny him because he’s young.”

Next to him, Rumlow only sighed.

“I think for now,” He clasped a hand on Rumlow’s shoulder. “We should focus on Peter’s recovery. Anything else can come later. Even the awkward father-and-son moments.”

If possible, Rumlow’s eyebrows shot passed his hairline. Before he could retort, Captain America was nowhere to be seen.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

It was midnight when Rumlow decided to came out of the bunker to see Peter. The rain has ceased about an hour ago for the clouds to thin out enough for stars to make an appearance in the sky while the moon hung silence, showering silvery light on everything it could touch. He appreciated the darkness the system provided as he entered the room. It softened the shape, the color, the noise, everything. His nerves calmed instead of running into each others, knocking and turning his inside into a wet mess.

Peter was sleeping—recuperating for those who are Enhanced—, along with the tubes and wires, connecting him to pulse monitoring device, blood, oxygen and IV Drip, his chest rose up and down with every soft breath.

His footfalls were barely there as he approached the sleeping teen. But still, even in his sleep, Peter’s senses was clearly unable to block the lightest disturbance because on the third footfall, the youngest stirred, the senses forcing the brain to juggle into consciousness, albeit much slower than usual. On the forth footfall, Peter’s eyes opened, but keeping them at mid-size.

“Wha—dad..?”

Rumlow blinked and went still. _Christ, they must have pumped a lot of morphine into his system for Peter to refer to him by the adjective. Suddenly it felt like he was kicked in the solar plexus._

Clearly, too much morphine because the kid didn’t realize something was amiss with his outburst while he continued to stare at Rumlow. He weighed the options between jumping through the window—he would open it first of course—like a young Galahad and ducking down and hiding under the bed. Shoves came after pulls, the man did neither.

“Hey.” Rumlow patted the teen’s shoulder slightly, because he didn’t know where to put his hand. He considered of fiddling with the wire, but the man didn’t want to risk sudden cardiac arrest. “How’s it going?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as Peter dry swallowed. “Uncomfortable. Tired.”

“Uncomfortable? Still hurting?” Rumlow’s other hand went to pick up the sheet by the edge so he could take a peek at the damage only for it to be smack by Peter. It was faster than lighting for the teen to actually catch up to his movement.

Clearing his throat, Peter looked sheepish. “Uh, naked.”

Ooh, right. _Right_. He remembered that uncomfortable feeling being poked and prodded and naked and aching all over the place. Been there, done that. “Right.” The man rubbed the back of his neck before touching the teen’s arm instead. “You’re warm.” From the arm, Rumlow placed his palm on top of Peter’s forehead. “Is he having a fever?”

“No, Sir.” With that inflection, sometime it was hard for Rumlow to actually remember that FRIDAY was an AI. “It’s how Mr. Parker system works.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s part of Spiderman’s healing process. His body system is now repairing the damaged tissues at much faster rate than a normal human does. The high activity levels seem to increase his temperature as well. It happens every time Mr. Parker sustains an injury.”

Evertime… Rumlow suddenly felt dizzy. “Right. Understood. Thanks.”

“Your welcome.” There was a slight chirp trailing her voice that made Rumlow raised an eyebrow.

“You need anything..?” The man muttered, giving a once over look throughout the room.

Again, Peter dry swallowed. “Water.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Rumlow went to the table and filled the cup with water before returning. Peter groaned slightly as the former commander helped him raised his body slightly before Rumlow placed the cup close to his lips.

In his current state—drowsy and in pain--, Peter took only few small sips before leaning back against the pillow with a sigh. The discomfort pulled his brows together.

Hesitant, the former HYDRA agent placed the cup back on the table and pulled a chair. Rumlow sat, leaned his back and went silent. Peter leaned back into the pillow, stared at the ceiling and went silent. Though enclosed by that room, the teen’s mind seemed thousand miles away, leaving the rest of the world behind him in the dust, like it was exploring every possibility of their current situation at enhanced speed. His thoughts—obviously worrisome thoughts— were reproducing at alarming rate. If left alone, damn, some might as well popped out of his head, Rumlow reckoned.

Time dripped by, the silence stretched further like vast ocean, and Rumlow felt like was drowning and choking in it. Peter has yet given any sign to disclose whatever crowding inside his head and Rumlow wasn’t comfortable to leave a now-spleen-missing teen with those worrying thoughts.

“Jesus, kid. Relax. Nobody is kicking anyone’s out.”

Peter looked startled. Now, that was amusing.

When the teen looked skeptical—he was almost on death bed and the kid still could look skeptical, really—Rumlow continued. “You’re not going anywhere. The worst thing that could happen is me going out or me off the field and doing paperwork, which makes me a bit happier.” 

Parting his lips, the younger looked like he wanted to say something, which in total disagreement with Rumlow, brows pinching together, but he held it back, fingers fiddling the sheet. Peter has always been a vocal kid from what he has observed so far. He could just imagine how awkward and scary it was to drawn himself in silence when the kid always compulsively verbalizing all this thoughts. His brain, despite the physical and mentally exhaustion, seemed animated by the stillness inside the room.

It didn’t take long for Peter to verbalize his thoughts again. “I’ll be more careful next time.” The teen glanced at Rumlow, eyes clear, despite his system was loaded with pain killer. “On the field.”

For a moment, the former HYDRA agent felt his throat tightened, his lungs hurt, like he was oxygen deprived. It took a minute for Rumlow to wet his lips and get his mouth to work again. “Yeah. You do that.”

Off his volition, the image of Peter’s bloodied form flickered before him. Rumlow had to do another yoga breathing technique just to tame his stomach. It was annoying. He has eaten nothing since his last episode, but his stomach was still trying to rebel and ruin his life.

_ ‘I didn’t hide you from the world for you to charge straight into the fire.’ _

That thought was filed away however and Rumlow doubted on its verbalization.

“Get some rest.” The man sighed and leaned further into the backrest, legs parting wide. “Let those super human cells do their things in getting you all fixed up.” He didn’t see the way Peter scrunched his nose because just now, it felt like he was described as something robotic. 

The room was slightly lit by the moonlight streaming from outside so there was no depth of certain blackness Rumlow usually needed to sink in good oblivion for him to fall asleep. Yet, he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, forced his eyes to go still behind his eyelids as he closed them, forced his mind to stop from working but at the same time, forcing it to believe the chair was a comfortable piece of furniture to sleep on.

It wasn’t comfortable. It was a bit small and it was hard.

It took him a while, enough for him to listen to small noises flit—mostly to Peter’s soft breathing— but eventually, Rumlow managed to slip into another realm.

**\--To be Continued--**


	3. Chapter 3

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Well, FRIDAY in fact, wasn’t wrong. On the third after he was first admitted to the operation room, Peter was already hoping his way around the building, around the tower and inside everyone’s breathing space. And despite not being a coffee drinker himself, the teen even made coffee in the kitchen, eyes fixated on the gurgling the machine made in interest as if it was spinning cotton candy instead. 

It was coffee, eventually, that attracted the Avengers into the kitchen in fact—the sweetness of the dark roasted coffee bean that wafted through the building which promised rich flavor with hints of chocolate, something nutty and fruitiness that transformed everyone into something, well, a bit human.

“Thanks, kid.” Fresh from his morning run, Sam took a sip of his coffee and hummed. He appreciated the bitterness lingering at the back of his throat despite the promise of sweetness the scent of coffee provided earlier. “How’s it going..?” Taking another sip, Sam nodded at Peter’s abdomen as he took a seat.

“Better.” Peter took the cereal box—Fruit Loops—from the cabinet with ease, along with a bowl. “It’s all closed up and it’s not painful anymore. I can move around better too.”

Clearly, Sam thought. Normies like him would probably take up to a month to walk around without wincing.

“Gonna do something about the scar?” The former Air Force saw Bucky opened the fridge and took out a couple of eggs. He gave a signal to Sam if he wanted eggs for breakfast in which the man declined with small headshakes. Today, he would be dropping by the VA early. Sam would just grab something on his way down.

Close to the coffee machine, Peter shrugged and began pouring the content of his cereal into his bowl. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m going to see how bad the scar would be.”

Sam only nodded while Bucky began whisking the eggs inside a small bowl next to him. Tony then walked in, briskly, full of purpose, trailed by Steve and Natasha and went straight to the coffee machine, not before patting Peter’s shoulder and said something to him, in their own language obviously. It was difficult to keep up with those two when they began talking. The genius-now recuperating man was clearly on his way to send Morgan to kindergarten, judging by the way he dressed, only dropping by for a cup of coffee. The coffee beans—which Tony himself restocked every week—had a different level of nutty undertones, just a hint of flirtation that the brunette himself preferred in compare with the ones he got from the coffee shops.

Plus, it gave him a reason to stop by and made sure nobody blows anything into anyone’s face.

“Call your Aunt yet?” Tony said around the lips of his mug. His complexion by now, was much better than few months ago after the battle. Still a bit pale and still limping if squinted hard, but nevertheless, his body was getting there. A tremendous progress, considering his almost near death experience and grave injuries. The elixir Danvers brought with her worked wonders on Tony in more than five ways, saved his life even.

“Not yet. After this.” There was no milk with his cereal, yet, and Peter popped few into his mouth, eating them dry. “Thanks for the cover story though. But I have a feeling she knew something’s wrong.”

The genius quickly drained his coffee and rinsed his mug. “Well, its school break. At least we don’t have to worry about your school.”

Like how he entered, Tony left the kitchen, only after giving a playful eyeroll to Natasha.

Replaced Tony was Rumlow. All of sudden, his presence brought the type of exhilaration that separated the night from the day. Suddenly, everyone was fully awake from their early morning trance. Suddenly, the birds stopped singing and the trees stop rustling. Bucky was whisking his eggs so fast that froth began to overflow from the bowl.

Sam glared at the other when bits of the froth landed straight into his mug.

Rumlow didn’t seem to notice this—he hasn’t had coffee introduced into his system after all—, or he chose to ignore it and made his way towards the coffee machine. Unlike half of the other whom still in their sleeping attire, the former HYDRA agent was already dressed up—if black t-shirt, combat pants and boots could be considered as part of dressing code—, hair combed perfectly which made other suddenly self conscious with their bed hair. Bucky had his hair tied up in pony tail and Sam’s hair was short _short,_ but those didn’t count.

“Hey, man.” Peter greeted Rumlow the second the man stepped in front of the machine. It was out purely on instinct, so casual, so innocent.

It made Peter winced on his own choice of words. It made Rumlow stilled in front of the coffee machine. It made Steve’s eyes almost crossed behind his eyelids.

But Rumlow being Rumlow, the man was quick to find his footing instead of tripping like some of them. “Yeah. Morning.”

Still, it didn’t stop the coffee from burning his tongue, leaving stinging sensation with each sip. It tasted like an evil vanilla. Their first exchanged words in public and it felt like they were speaking an ancient language. It felt weird in too many ways. 

“You going home today?”

Peter munched on his dry Fruit Loop. “Yeah, I’m gonna call Aunt May later to pick me up from the station.”

With all those awkward shifting Peter was exhibiting, clearly the teen had so little recollection on Rumlow’s visit that night.

Next to him, back against the counter Peter was still holding on his bowl of milk free cereal like it was his dear life and he was being pushed towards the edge of a cliff with a shovel. Any more pressure, the bowl would break and series of Fruit Loops would be airborne. Apparently, having Peter and Rumlow together in the same room was like waiting for a disaster to happen.

“You gonna have milk with that?” Sidled close to the teen, Bucky nodded at the bowl in Peter’s hand.

Peter only nodded.

“Rumlow,” Bucky drawled the other’s name, eyes half lidded. “Milk. Mind getting it?” He gestured at the fridge behind the former STRIKE captain. The other quickly popped the fridge open, took the carton from the side door and handed it to Peter. He also threw evil eyes towards Bucky. The way the 100-years old soldier returned his gaze, it was as if Bucky had won something, let say, he had succeeded in taking over a nation. The new beard didn’t help.

“You know I think it’s better if Rumlow drive you back to Queen.”

Had Rumlow been any less resistant to unbecoming torment, the man would have snorted his coffee.

“No!” Unfortunately, Peter resistance towards moment complexity was next to zero. He was chewing and stuffing spoon after spoon of his cereal with rapid succession.

“You mean, no, it’s not alright for Rumlow to drive—”

“No, I mean,” Peter quickly said after swallowing his spoon and gave Bucky a pleading eyes, unable to look Rumlow in the eyes. “I’ve already called May. So, yeah, I don’t want, you know, change anything with her. Mmrghh.” He finished it with a cough.

“But you haven’t called her.” Bucky faked innocence. While Peter almost whine, Rumlow was breathing fire through his nostril and Natasha looked as if she was ready to jump on the semi-senile soldier, strapped him with a tape and tossed him into the lower cabinet along with the drain cleaner.

“I called her yesterday. I told her I’m going home today, so it’s just me telling her the time.” Peter was definitely chewing on his spoon. That, or he was grinding his teeth raw. “And um, I’m going to call her now and get ready. Bye, guys!”

Bowl still in his hand, Peter quickly made himself scarce. For every step he made, it was like the teen was poked with a hot poker. He didn’t yelp, at least they knew his stitches were still intact.

The soonest Peter was out of an earshot, Bucky looked at Rumlow. “Good talk, huh?”

Rumlow huffed. “If his stitches snapped because he’s running like a madman, I’m going to pluck your hand like I’m plucking weeds.” It was definitely Crossbones talking, or Rumlow flashing a new set of homicidal intent.

“Relax.” Rolling his eyes, Bucky said, particularly to Steve and Rumlow. “You’re his dad, everyone knows. Just roll with it.”

That touched the raw nerve. Said father only placed his mug on the counter with a muffled clack. Now that his system has been introduced with caffeine, his mental, physical and physiology were now gearing up at full force. “Do you know what Winter Soldier always said to me when we were working together?”

In instant, Bucky’s homicidal level spiked beyond the safe line. He returned Rumlow’s gaze, eyes went killer cold, his jaw firm. He took a step towards the former HYDRA Agent. “Yeah? What’s that?”

There was a challenge in the soldier’s note, a promise of hurt. But then again, Rumlow was the STRIKE leader and his handler for years. While others killed if not crippled during Winter Soldier’s breakdown episodes, the man tolerated, triumphed even, and he didn’t bat an eyelid when Bucky inched closer, pan and bowl of whisked eggs in both hands.

“He said nothing.” Rumlow said. No doubt his breath whispered against Bucky’s face. “He was quite. Gotta miss those times. Well, Karma is a bitch that owed to be spanked, right?” Right then, the man broke the tension, turned around and began piling peanut butter onto the toast he snatched from Steve’s plate.

Steve’s only frowned in return.

“Because right now, I have to face a 100-years old, semi-senile soldier with annoying Brooklyn accent every damn day and breath the same air as his.”

“The irony.” Taking a bite out of his toast, Rumlow shook his head and left the kitchen.

“Jerk. I don’t have annoying accent. And the air is free for everyone.” His next breath came out in an annoyed huff as he threw the remaining of the milk into his eggs. Bucky looked up only to meet three pairs of disapproving frowns. “What?”

“Really, Barnes? Was that necessary?” Sam drained his coffee and waited for the other to respond.

A grunt. “I’m just saying. What’s wrong with that?”

“They’re experiencing changes.” Natasha began gathering the ingredients for her smoothie—banana, blueberries, soy milk, etc—from the fridge. “Don’t add the complexity. Let them move in their own pace.”

Bucky turned on the electrical stove which he only had gotten it right recently. Before this, FRIDAY had to keep on reminding him that the stove, by any means, is not a landmine. Apparently, the soldier has been poking and prodding the inanimate object for so long that the AI’s amusement had shifted towards annoyance.

“I’m experiencing changes that worth seventy years.” The man mumbled, pouring the whisked eggs onto the pan.

“Don’t compare apple and banana, old man.” Said Sam before the man left the kitchen to take a quick shower.

Her hands were nimble as she began cutting the fruits. “His words, not mine.” Natasha grinned when she noticed the annoyance mapping across Bucky’s face. “And your eggs are burning.”

“Fucking landmine!”

“Language!”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Rumlow found Peter few days later in the recreational room in the tower where Tony had recently upgraded the home theater—110-inch screen size that provided extraordinary, non-comparable depth of picture clarity that packed a good amount of realism. Every smallest details of the picture was highlighted and enhanced which made the movie more vibrant and real with every second. Even the sound system was another level what with FRIDAY matching the scene with optimal sound quality and all.

Tony said he had wanted everyone to look cool and everything inside the tower to look even cooler. Rumlow thought the man just enjoyed being everyone’s sugar daddy long legs.

Peter and Wanda were in middle of selecting the movie when Rumlow stepped closer to the sofa. They were only two of them with a bowl of heavily caramelized popcorn—caramel was practically oozing from it—and few cans of soda. 

“The Black Hole, Pietro? Seriously? Right after Alien?” Wanda’s accent seemed to be getting thicker, hands busy snagging and swatting the youngers’ hand away with impossible speed.

Legs crossed on the floor, Peter exclaimed, “But Fantastic Beast is too magical!”

“My power is magical.” She deadpanned. It was hard to decide that she was the Scarlet Witch when she was wearing a Christmas onesies.

Rumlow pinched his nose. The world wasn’t making any sense or he was just getting old.

Peter sucked a breath, not wanting to dive further and not wanting to upset the witch. “Well, you make yours look cooler. But this movie makes it looks weird and kinky and not logic.”

“Alien is not logical!”

“Thor is an alien! And—and, so is Peter Quill and his whole teammates.” Peter looked fairly pleased with himself when Wanda was running out of ideas.

Both of them looked up when Rumlow cleared his throat. Both of them went flustered when the man raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll go make some more popcorn!” In a swift movement, Wanda stood up and jumped over the sofa—Jesus, she could be a track and field athlete when she’s not busy Avenging— before jogging her steps towards the kitchen. In almost distress, Peter mouthed ‘No, no, no! Don’t leave me!’ but to no avail. The witch was long gone.

It wasn’t until Wanda was out of sight that Rumlow finally spoke. “She calls you Pietro..?”

“Yeah, she’s—” The teen tried to casual it up by picking few popcorns and popped them into his mouth. “It just slipped off sometimes. She said I remind her of his brother. I don’t mind.”

The man didn’t comment further.

Sitting on the armrest, Rumlow picked up the one of the CD—the one Wanda was busy smacking away. “Alien?” He raised an eyebrow.

“That movie saved Dr. Strange’s life.” Peter said indigently.

For a moment, Rumlow felt his jaw rested on the floor. He scooped it back up and shook his head. “I really don’t wanna know what you’re talking about.” Tossing the case onto the cushion, the former HYDRA agent shifted his attention back to his teenage son. “I’m thinking about visiting your mom this Saturday.”

“Oh.” Peter re-arranged his legs on the floor so he could face the man better. It actually took a moment for the teen to circulate the information around.

“You don’t have to come along. I’m just telling—”

“No, I want to go!” After that outburst, Peter cleared his throat and popped another popcorn into his mouth. “What time?”

A bit taken back, the former SHIELD agent rubbed the back of neck. “Morning. I’ll text you later and confirm the time. I’ll pick you up at the apartment?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Peter nodded. Jesus, the kid looked like he was holding his breath under water.

Rumlow stood up, did a cursory glance around and muttered, “Alright.” When he left, Peter was seen fiddling and tugging on the carpet, eyeing towards the hallway that led to the kitchen nervously.

Never in his life, Rumlow thought that he was the endless, agonizing, source of someone’s awkwardness. Unbelievable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've started my new job for a few months now. Thus the reason behind the delay of the updates. Hate to say, this new job though pays good, it's a bit depressing for me. Still, do enjoy this chapter.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

“You going out?”

If there was any significance difference in between the S.T.R.I.K.E personnel and the Avengers—aside that all STRIKE were HYDRA agents—, the later had no respect for boundary or whatsoever. Everyone is in everybody’s space. Rumlow noticed that. Like right now, he couldn’t even get to the fruit bowl without anyone’s nose in his breathing space even though he deliberately woke up earlier than usual.

Rumlow gave a flat look at the Sokovian. “It’s none of your business.” Might be his imagination, but for some reason, he couldn’t lift the apple as if it was glued to the bowl which also glued to the table.

“You’re taking Peter somewhere?” Rumlow’s words failed to reach her as Wanda repeated the sub context of her question. When the man frowned at her, the witch simply responded by taking another bite out of her buttered toast.

The apple gave in and secured in Rumlow’s hand after the former agent looked like he was ready to pulverise the fruits, bowl and counter included. “Again, none of your business.”

Something told him the change of his usual dressing code—black t-shirt topped with equally black denim jacket and dark jeans—has exposed today’s objective. Either that, or everyone in the tower was now masters of espionage.

The former HYDRA agent could barely take a bite out of his apple when Clint decided that it was a perfect moment to trample on his boundary line as well. Gods, the urge these people had to knock down the boundary fence was stronger than water buffalos heading for the river during drought season.

“You gonna take your kid somewhere?”

How the archer could hear the conversation while he has just arrived in the kitchenette was beyond him. Last time he checked, Clint was still a guy with one damaged eardrum.

Choosing to ignore the questions, Rumlow continued to take a bite out of his apple as he worked on his phone, typing and sending messages.

Undeterred, Clint took a seat on one of the stool. He didn’t exactly do anything except for sitting there like a content sea cucumber which made Rumlow to judge on his real intention behind his visitation. He could be here to see Natasha, or to use the training. He could be here to clean the vent for all he cared.

“You shouldn’t ignore the huge elephant, Rumlow. I feel sorry for that poor thing. You should, you know,” The man shrugged, crossing his legs on top of another. “Play with it a bit. Pet him, even.”

Rumlow did this slow chewing kind of thing which he usually does whenever he was heavily confused. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that metaphor.” If he had drank let say, five cups of coffee and smoked marijuana for breakfast, the former STRIKE Captain would have thought that Clint was trying to humor him and Rumlow would have laughed.

On his seat, Clint did a dramatic eye roll. “This thing going on between you and Peter.” He spread his arms out to emphasize his point. “This awkwardness! You have to address it properly, man.”

His frown probably didn’t reach the former SHIELD Agent slash former vigilante slash archer because Clint was still staring him with such intensity that could easily melt an iron. Still, Rumlow’s nerve was many times stronger, although the gaze still left him a bit unsettled. “I am addressing it.” He took few large bites at his apple at time because he had every intention to leave in a minute or two. This morning, his nerve could only handle poking and prodding from two Avengers, max. Any more, Rumlow would start emptying his clips.

“No, you’re not.” Clint said with a snort. “You can barely talk to him.”

“I talk to him, alright.”

Wanda heaved a sigh, placing her mug on the counter. “No, you grunt, he mumbles. And then he winces and you look like you’re walking on burning coals. Hate to say this, Rumlow.” She then gave a deadpanned look. “Your conversation skill is for shit.”

No words left his mouth as the man throw the remaining apple core into the trash can before leaving the kitchen. He had this odd urge to push Bucky off the balcony when they bumped against each other around the corner. But Rumlow thought to file it for later vengeance.

One thing left for sure, when he left the tower, Rumlow was annoyed and in denial.

To manifest those unholy feelings, he ran over Wanda’s flower garden with his black SUV. He then grinned to himself all the way to Queen. That was definitely Crossbones in the flesh.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

If Rumlow was glad that May Parker was the one answer the door, he didn’t hide it. May, in short was alright. One of few people he would include in his orbit. Her bubbly personality had this sort of balmy effect to his, well, annoyed temperament. And that temperament just took full effect this morning.

Perhaps it’s just May. Or perhaps they both had gone through the same type of bereavement that he had no problem connecting with her.

“Brock!” She quickly pulled him into a full hug. It has been too long in fact. Two decades, almost, from the last time he met her in person.

Rumlow reciprocated and returned the hug, before they pulled away. May looked, well, two decades older. But she still had the same kind of brightness and attraction.

“It’s been too long.”

“Twenty years.” Rumlow confirmed and shook his head. “Well, almost.”

“That long, huh?” She then walked back inside. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” He stepped inside, closed the door behind him and did a cursory glance throughout the apartment—the living room, the kitchen, the dining area, the hallway.

The apartment fitted the Parkers like a glove. Not too big that you can fit few elephants inside. Not too tight you could trip on anything or stub a toe against the furniture. It was just nice. In truth, Brock himself disliked too large spaces. It’s not convenient during cleaning process and the emptiness makes everything feels too lonely. Nothing too suffocating about this place, everything in an appropriate place. It was the kind of home Brock would want Peter to grow up in.

“Peter’s getting ready.”

Standing by the cabinet, Rumlow only hummed his acknowledgement as his focus zeroed on the collection of framed pictures—picture of Peter’s foster parent, picture of Ben and May from years back, picture of them both along with Peter—, though his eyes lingered a lit bit longer on the photos of Peter in his younger self, from tots to middle school. The kid didn’t seem to have problem with the camera, all smiley, all kiddy-like, all relaxed as opposed to his real life all over the place personality.

Then again, not that Rumlow really knew what Peter was like in real life then. Few months seeing the kid in the flesh wasn’t even close to those seventeen years he has been missing out. No direct contact in between the Parkers and him. His fear that any hostile persona could link him back to Peter was greater than his need to see his son. Peter was in good hands. He’s safe. That were all he knew.

Until the kid received super power along with holy call and decided to become the friendly neighbourhood crime fighting Spiderman. Every little detail of safety he decided to provide was now at the bottom of the lake. Unbelievable.

Rumlow messaged the side of his forehead as he paced across the living room towards the dining table. The telltale of headache was coming and it was barely 9 o’clock.

He sat down just before May placed the steaming mug of coffee—black, two sugar—and pancakes on a plate in front of him. There was an almost empty plate with itsy bitsy leftover at the other side of the table, probably belonged to Peter before the teen dashed to get himself ready.

Sometimes, when he was left with nothing to do in his free time, Rumlow found himself wondering if Peter’s appetite was affected by his newfound ability. Wasn’t easy to observe the teen’s eating pattern when said teen clearly minimize his time in the kitchen everytime Rumlow was within the vicinity.

There was a sudden thud, followed by series of crashing coming from one the rooms. Rumlow was betting big bucks that it was Peter’s room. He raised an eyebrow at May.

“He’s doing circus performance in there?”

“Oh it’s just,” She paused, thinking a right word to describe her nephew. “It’s just Peter being Peter.” So she came up with none.

“I was surprised actually,” May took a seat in front of him. The coffee in her own mug was refilled, apparently. “When Peter said you’re coming over.”

The former HYDRA agent now turned Avengers—God, he hoped not—, only hummed, taking few small sips out of his coffee.

She fiddled with the handle of the mug, amusement reflected in her eyes. “Does that mean they know..?”

Pouring a good amount of honey on his pancakes, Rumlow snorted. “You kiddin’, right? Everyone knows. Next week, the whole world probably knows.”

“Does this have something to do with Peter not being home for three days?”

She was answered with a silence and thoughtful chewing. Rumlow was clearly stalling.

“Brock.”

“Yes, alright?” After swallowing, the man finally answered. “He got himself injured. They just didn’t want you to get worried.”

Fingers laced on table, May gave Rumlow a look. “How bad?”

Once again, Rumlow tried stalling, but May was obstinate herself. On the second minute, the man gave up. “Quite bad. He a spleen-free teenager now.”

“He’s missing an organ?!”

Quickly, Rumlow put his fork down and shushed her. “To save his life. It’s just a spleen, calm down. His body still can function as good as before.”

“He’s not a car, Brock.”

“He’s not. I know that and I panicked too. But he’s alright, okay? The good doctors took care of him.” The man picked his fork back and took another bite out of his pancakes.

Gone anxiety, May now was looking at him, a small smirk hidden behind the mug. “You panicked?”

“Shut up.”

It would take an army to make her go quiet. Rumlow should have known that. “How’s thing by the way? When both of you in the tower?”

“Feels like picking your nose when you know that everyone is staring. But you still have to brave it since your finger is already inside.”

“That awkward?”

Before Rumlow could open his mouth, Peter came out of his room, now fully dressed. As opposed to the man, what the teen had on him was a bit formal. Long sleeved, black shirt with equally black pants. Although he left the shirt un-tucked and free of necktie.

“Sorry.” Peter was a bit out of breath as if he was really doing multiple backflips inside his room. He was nervous, clearly, when he knew Rumlow only intended to visit his mother, not taking the teen to participate a life and death gladiator tournament. “It took a while for me to find this.” He pinched the front of his shirt with his fingers. “I forgot where I put it.”

“You ready?” Rumlow said after finishing the last bit of his coffee. He didn’t see the way Peter nodded his head when he collected his dishes and placed them into the sink, all the while May watched their interaction with interest.

May patted the teens’ arm and smiled. “Have a good day, both of you.”

Peter only pinched his lower lip with his teeth in respond. And when she looked at Rumlow and mouthed ‘talk to him!’, she only received a handful of eyes rolling motion from the said man as the former HYDRA Agent picked up his keys, wallet and phone off the table.

They left in silence.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The place where Peter’s mother was laid rest was about an hour drive outside Queens. They stopped by the flower shop first, because Rumlow wanted to buy some and because Peter kept on snapping his head towards the window each time they passed a flower shop. One time, the teen smacked his nose against it and later whined in pain.

That was the last straw.

The small bell chimed softly when the stepped inside the flower shop. Rumlow pretended he didn’t notice the way Peter’s eyes lit up earlier when he pulled the car over. There was always something about flower shop—the fragrance, the sensation, the air. It evoked memories. It evoked imagination, thought, feelings, visions of the past even. And the combination of the fragrances from many flowers was like a powerful brew of emotions.

A quick look here and there, Rumlow settled his interest on one of the collections in the catalogue called Autumn Harvest consisting of yellow roses, orange carnations and bronze poms with stems of yellow solidago and ruscus.

“I’ll take this.” Rumlow pointed at the bouquet, eyes lingered on the teen while Peter browsed the isle of flowers.

“Of course, sir.” The young florist nodded. “Vase?”

Rumlow shook his head. “No. Just wrap them up good.”

“Very well, then.” With a polite nod, the florist went to the back to prepare the former agent’s order.

Next to him, Peter closed in with a small sigh, uncertainty pursing his lips together, before eyeing the picture on the catalogue. “It looks Autumn-like. All orange and yellow.”

“Your mother loved Autumn.” Rumlow simply said.

Before him, Peter’s expression was quite unreadable, quite rare for someone who was as expressive as ever. He looked down to stare at his shoes for few seconds, before his eyes went to make a quick scan on the displayed flowers again. “What other flowers she liked?”

The question shook Rumlow from his bearing a bit before the man re-composed himself. Sooner or later, the man knew that Peter would eventually voice his curiosity about his mother. God forbid it was this soon. But boy hold too little recollection of her and Rumlow couldn’t exactly deny his right to know about how his mother were like.

“Rose in general.” The former Agent was informative when Peter looked like he was ready to eat the flower if left unanswered. “And carnations.”

For a moment, Peter’s eyes glistened with life while he absorbed the information before nodding softly. He thumbed the pages softly few times, walked back and forth the isle twice before finally settling his decision on the pink carnations just in time the florist came back with Rumlow’s order.

All three of them gathered at the counter and Peter placed the carnations—six stems in total—on the table as well. Only six of them, each with ruffled and soft petals arranged in overlapping manner with jagged edges, but enough to invoke the recognition of clover-like scent. The cashier flashed a warm smile at the teen.

“For your mother?” She asked.

On where he stood, Peter visible went stiff if not confused.

She nodded at the flower, still musing with the arrangement in her hand to give it a final touch. “Pink carnations. Mother’s love.”

“Oh.” Eyes now zeroed in on the flower, Peter thumbed the end of the stem. “I—I didn’t know that. I just picked them because they look pretty.”

Now flustered, Peter busied himself by fishing out his wallet. Rumlow could pay for the teen’s flower, but he reckoned Peter would want to pay it himself. So he let him, for the sake of argument.

Inside the car, the combination of fragrances from the roses, carnations, poms and solidago was so full, so sweet and lush, enough for Rumlow’s mind to be engulfed by distant memories.

For Peter however, he was consumed by memories he has never had.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Everything about today was a bit somnolent than usual. The sky was overcast by thick, white milk. It made it felt like the whole world now was blanketed by the clouds and it sure made sky seemed closer. They looked dark, just a hint of greyness there, but Rumlow didn’t think it would rain any time soon.

On a brighter side, it relieved them from the normal heat and too bright sun. Better, everyone else today shared the same cloudy sky.

Next to him, Peter went eerie still. He was looking at the funeral service going on at the other side of the cemetery. Someone at the front—which he assumed the family member—was giving speech at the front, the other attendees were silent. There were prayers, there were also moments of silence and reflection and remembrance of the deceased. There were a lot of people, yet it was quiet.

Rumlow didn’t come to his wife funeral. He came after. And Peter was too small, so he couldn’t remember—the balmy words, the sombre atmosphere.

The former Hydra agent let the teen with his thought as he went to where his late wife laid rest. He didn’t give the flower just yet. Rumlow just kneeled down, one hand rest on his thigh and stared at the headstone. It was gray in colour. Should be grey in color. But at the moment, it appeared white.

Rumlow has never seen a headstone that looked ghastly white.

Out of instinct, the former STRIKE commander brushed his fingers along the surface, catching the dirt accumulated around the carvings. Dirt at first, then Rumlow moved on to plucking the weeds. They weren’t many. May might have come here often, more often than he himself should have been.

Behind him, Peter was figuratively boring holes through him.

The cleaning, the remembrance moments didn’t take too much of the time. Before he knew it, Rumlow has already placed the flowers down, in front of the headstone. When the teen stood next to him, Peter took his time to smell the carnations, holding the blossoms up to his nose inhaling deep as though he wanted to imprint the smell in his mind.

Like he was trying to imprint the memory all over.

The he placed the carnations next to Rumlow’s bouquet and breathed slowly.

“Did I cry?” Peter suddenly spoke. Rumlow was under impression that the teen was harbouring gold inside his mouth today considering the lack of verbalization coming from him. “During the funeral.”

“I don’t know.” He said. “I wasn’t there.”

A sudden strong breeze swept by. Rumlow have never seen leaves and grass rustled so… miserable.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

They stopped by for lunch because it was, well, time for lunch. It was a family restaurant, it was weekend and it was noon. Of course, the place would be packed with people.

Still, they managed to secure a table next to the window. Peter ordered a classic Hawaiian burger with fries and light salad while Rumlow got himself roast beef with sautéed mushroom and some steamed seasoned vegetables. They ate in comfortable—God he hoped so—silence, unlike other tables where each of them had their own argument going on.

Peter was quiet, obviously in his own little headspace as he dipped his fries into the Hawaiian sauce dripping from the pate. He did it few times until he got bored and went to move the ketchup around, different fries this time. The salad bowl was almost empty, saved for sliced onions that surely had seen better days.

Few tables away, a couple of teenage girls kept on glancing towards their direction. Or Peter’s direction in general, before giggling and whispering secretively. Rumlow only gave a sideway glance, clearly aware of the sub-context of their conversation. Clearly, they appreciated Peter’s look. Had to admit it, the teen does have good look, what with that boyish face and Bambi eyes. He definitely didn’t get that from him.

If only he could sit still and stop fidgeting once in a while in front of him. Judging by the way he fidgeted and the way he looked like there’s a off dimension creature rolling all over the road outside and showing its belly, it could only mean one thing…

“Calm down, bud.” The former STRIKE leader said over a mouthful of sliced beef and gravy. “Queens is not going to turn into Gotham if you stopped patrolling for half a day.” He swallowed. “That’s what cops are for.”

The look on Peter’s face was a crossover in between startled and confusion. Startled, Rumlow understood. But the confusion...? Really, has nobody ever stopped the kid—or Spiderman—from doing something… unsafe to his wellbeing? Peter literally swings from high rise building to another high rise building and wrestled uncanny and dodgy characters and nobody has ever expressed their concern? Steve Rogers and Co. only came out once in a while so it was understandable that no citizens could predict their movement and stopped them from committing harms to themselves. Dully noted.

Well, Iron Man did try to stop Peter, verbally, and failed, from going to outer space. But that didn’t count.

“I know that. Nothing’s happening.” Peter suddenly looked up, caught. So he was indeed listening to everything within 10miles radius. Rumlow was torn in between feeling amazed or simply concerned. He didn’t seem to notice the girls that have been shooting him lingering looks for the last, lets say, fifteen minutes. Instead, he noticed his five seconds starring.

That actually was concerning.

“Good to know.” Rumlow said as he polished the last bit of his lunch before wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Are you done?”

The teen finished his soda before saying, “Yeah.” He quickly stood up and the girls shot a longing and disappointed look.

This time, Rumlow paid for their lunches. Really, what kind of being—or a father especially—that let their kids to pay for their meal. Tony Stark is an exception. Guy was rich from babyhood.

Outside, the sky darkened. Rumlow inhaled deeply, out of practice. There’s always a fresh, sweet smelling scent in the air right before the rain comes pouring down. He kind of liked that smell. It has always provoked the curios, fear feeling within people. Or maybe it’s just him.

They didn’t go into the car just yet, because Rumlow was struck with a sudden urge for nicotine. He pulled a pack of cigarette from his pocket, tapped it few times and took one out before lighting it. One deep inhale and the former Hydra agent closed his eyes, letting the nicotine did their part to his lungs and numbing his mind. When he reached the third puff, Peter stepped closer to him, staring at the smoke bellowing from his lips. There was a moment of curiosity in between them.

“I didn’t know you smoke.” Peter said.

Rumlow tried to huff in amusement. Tried. But Rumlow being former Crossbones, former Hydra agent, former adversary to Captain America, it was expected that his attempt failed. In fact, he sounded like an evil character. Cliché.

And then, he complicated the situation by saying, “You know nothing about me, kid.”

… In which he immediately knew unnecessary. In which he immediately regretted his poor choice of words. He realized that when Peter had that startled look that made him wanted to rewind the time and to make himself simply shut up and nodded.

Out of many people here on the streets, of course Rumlow had decided to act like a dick to his flesh and blood instead of the guy who had just bumped against a lady and didn’t bother to apologize. Gods, he could even act like a dick towards the parking meter that does nothing but stand there and being miserable.

Again, Rumlow being Rumlow, his capability to take back his words or twist them into something less ass-holish was next to zero. So he just pressed his lips tight together as he tossed the remaining of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of his shoe.

The rest of the ride home wasn’t entirely quiet since it was filled with white noise. It’s raining heavily now with wind breathed lowly. Drops of rainwater landed on the windshield before batted away by the wipers. It was different with side windows where the droplets took their time crookedly crawling down along the glass before disappearing when they reached the bottom.

Rumlow was quiet as he concentrated with manoeuvring the without hitting the lamp post. Peter was quiet too, but went ghostly quiet. He kept his hands on his laps as stared at whatever in front of him, face blank. The man forced himself in believing that Peter acted like that because of the icy rain droplets that had struck him earlier.

Thing was, it hasn’t rain before they have gotten into the car.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

That evening, Rumlow was found by Clint lying down on the sofa with both his head and feet perched on the armrests. His jacket looked rather pathetically now it laid on the floor with no further business with the world, or it’s owner as a matter of fact. The former Strike leader didn’t even remove his arm from his eyes when he heard the cushion shifted at the other side of the sofa.

“Wanda hates you. And she’s deadly just in case you’ve forgotten.” Clint said.

The other only groaned in response.

“I take it that your outing didn’t go well.”

Another groan.

“So you haven’t managed to play with the elephant?”

Removing his arm and letting it to lay on his stomach, Rumlow gave the archer a look. “I know you were raised in a circus, stop making it too obvious that you have a thing for elephant.”

Clint didn’t look offended with the remarks. Guy probably had done something rewarding today, like teaching his children how to stalk their mother without getting noticed.

Children and the urge to save the planet… Uggh.

“And yes, I did try to play with the elephant. It didn’t work.” Rumlow now stared at the ceiling. He has never gone to therapist before—Shield therapist didn’t count, because they were all spies in essence—, but the man had an inkling this is how it felt like. The ceiling, the talking, and the therapist speaking in a language that was everything but English. Is that a dirt on the ceiling… or a camera? He would later pointed out to Friday.

“The elephant just sat there,” He continued. “All curled up and gets angrier and angrier everytime I try to get close. Everytime I did something, it definitely landed on it’s bad side.”

The archer leaned his back further into the backseat and rest his leg on his other knee. He was sitting on the adjacent one seated sofa, so Clint had a clear view on Rumlow miserable look. “You’re not doing it right.”

“You’re the one who told me to play with it.”

“Slowly, Rumlow.” Clint said. “I meant slowly. I didn’t tell you to suddenly play American Football with him.”

On the armrest, Rumlow twisted his head slowly so he could give Clint an accusing look. Not too much if he didn’t want to suffer from neck sprain later. “You didn’t say that. For a therapist, your skill is for shit.”

Again, Clint was unfazed. Amazing. If Rumlow was a therapist and his patient is acting like a total douche during session, he would definitely open fire. The archer had obviously done good deeds today.

“I might have said something unnecessary today.” He finally caved in and sighed. Add deep sigh to that notion. “Each time when I thought that I’ve finally done something less wrong, it became a disaster. A train wreck. And it drifts us further apart. How do you even talk to your kids without biting you tongue? And you’ve got three of them.”

“You open your mouth.”

Rumlow glared. It was Crossbones now lying on sofa radiating a rather murderous intent and being miserable at the same time.

Rolling his eyes, Clint gave an exasperated sigh. “Jokes aside. Nothing wrong with wanting to connect with you kid. But it will become a disaster when you’re forcing it.”

“I’m not forcing anything.”

“Yes, you are.” Legs crossed, Clint said. The man sounded like he was certain that Rumlow picked his nose inside his car. “You’re stressing over things, probably because everyone is watching your every move.”

“Everyone is watching my every move.” Rumlow deadpanned as he laced his fingers together and rest them on his abdomen. “It feels like I’m in a zoo.”

There was a temporary pause in their conversation. A moment of silence filling in between. More so when they noticed Steve arrival. The blond stopped on his track, blue eyes trailing from Rumlow’s figure to Clint. He was still wearing his brown slack and checker shirts. Gods, Rumlow always forgot that Steve was actually an old man in the heart.

“Everything’s alright?” Concerned thickened his voice a bit. Typical Captain America.

“It’s fine, Cap.” Clint said with a wave of hand. It was dimmed here, in the common area. The lighting has been adjusted where it softened and muted almost everything inside the room, Steve’s features included. If Rumlow hadn’t been too overwhelmed by today’s events, the man would have fallen asleep by now on the sofa. Deadly assassin watching his sleep be damned.

Sceptical at first, Steve eventually caved, nodded in understanding and walked away, presumably towards his quarter.

They didn’t know to what extent is Steve’s super hearing, but Clint only waited until the blonde rounded the corner. “Look, you’ve gotta take it easy. You’ve never been put inside the same room with your kid probably more than a minute before this. It puts you on edge. It puts him on edge. So you’ve fucked up things a bit. That’s fine, man. You’ll get over it. He’ll get over it.”

Rumlow didn’t answer.

“Peter WILL get over it, Rumlow.” Clint repeated, albeit loudly when said man looked like he wasn’t going to listen any horseshit.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.” The man huffed and returned his head back to a more comfortable position. Scrunching his eyes shut, the former STRIKE leader tried practicing the yoga breathing technique, considering the slight throbbing on his temple right now. The telltale of future headache.

“So, you’ve never spoke to Peter before this? I mean, before the words that he’s your kid got around? Before you were dragged here?”

… And the throbbing now intensified.

Yet, Rumlow willed himself to answer normally instead of emptying his clips. “I went to see him. Once in a while. Away from Pierce’s praying eyes. But Rollins did the talking.”

Next to him, Clint was frowning. Deep frown, definitely. And there was a shift, fabric moved against the cushion. The man was… Rumlow wanted to believe the man was intrigued, not flabbergasted.

“Rollins..? The guy who probably spoke five words in a year? He’s your mouth piece?”

“He’s not—” Lips pressed together, Rumlow paused, fingers unconsciously tracing the seams of the cushion. “He can talk, alright? He just hates small talk. And he’s alright with Peter. And my domestic conversation skill is for shit.”

It wasn’t the fact that Jack Rollins could actually talk that surprised Clint the most. “Why? Why didn’t you talk to him, normally? Instead of bringing Rollins to become the third wheel?”

“Because I know the kind of person he was and the kind of person he would turn out into. And I knew the kind of person I was. ‘s that good enough?”

This time, the archer didn’t answer him.

“I can’t find a common ground. I don’t know how to connect with him. Even I wanted to.” The last part was said with a voice that was barely whisper. It almost didn’t sound like Rumlow at all.

On the sofa, Rumlow’s breathing evened out. Every puff of air exhaled from his lungs in soft murmur. He was tired, dead tired, exhausted and the sofa, which he hated to admit, was godawfully nice. Soft, with good amount of high quality cushion and spring. Four cycles of breathing later, the man could barely hear a thing. His mind went numb. His muscles unfurled. Clint wasn’t saying anything anymore either. Or the other could be saying something, but Rumlow’s headspace was too far gone.

Then he felt it. The sudden change in the air. The kind of change that screamed murder and a promise to hurt. It sliced and cut the tranquillity, the comfort, like a scorching knife cutting butter. It filled the room like a crackle of lighting. Too fast, too furious. And boy, the one radiating it was furious indeed.

“Where is he?! Where’s that garden destroying jerk?” When she arrived, Wanda was red all over. Well, technically speaking. Her eyes blazed scarlet coal, scanning around the room for Rumlow.

Flinching—even a guy born with a heart of molten evil would flinch—, Clint fought the urge to bring his knees up close to his chest at Wanda’s wrath.

“Uhh,” His eyes slowly crept over to where Rumlow was last seen.

... Only to find the subject of Wanda’s wrath was nowhere to be seen.

At 8 o’clock pm sharp, the whole Avengers building shook. By that time, Rumlow was already in his car, smirking as he pulled over to the driveway and away from one who wanted him dead—or at least suffered from mental disturbance.

He was Crossbones for the third time of the day.

**\--To be Continued--**


	5. In The Waiting Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The thing is, there is only one empty slot around here for the emotionally constipated bastard. But it’s already filled. By me.” To emphasize his point, Stephen pointed at himself with his thumbs. “So you can stop pretending like you don’t care and start acting and start showing that you do care about Peter Parker.”
> 
> Peter is not alright.
> 
> Stephen Strange notices.
> 
> T'Challa helps.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

For the next few days, Peter has been avoiding him. Rumlow didn’t need to have a brain as large as Dr. Banner to notice that. The tower was big, what with those rooms, hallways and secret passages and vents, so it wasn’t hard for the teen to make himself scarce as soon as the man entered the very same room he was in. He was starting to receive different type of looks too. Tony gave him funny looks. Steve gave him concerned looks. Natasha gave him subtle looks. Wanda gave him an evil looks. Every each one of them gave their own version of looks. None of them gave Peter the looks. Because, obviously they knew who was the dodgy character out of the two of them.

Rumlow pretended not to notice and focused on his task although in reality, he noticed it from miles away. Nobody wanted to poke and prod. Almost. One time, Sam opened his mouth and a dagger ended up lodged into the wall, one inch away from his head. They exchanged curses and Sam told him to play video game instead to channel his inner Crossbones homicidal tendency before flipping him off.

Thing was, if Peter was avoiding him for the sake of avoidance, for the friction that took place during their last outing, Rumlow would understand and give the boy some—a lot of—space. Thing was, the teen was clearly avoiding him for something more, dare he say concerning. His concern then narrowed down on the almost too subtle jolt when Clint called out for him or the almost invisible twitch or a hitch of a breath when a sudden noise crashing not within vicinity, outside the room. They were almost didn’t exist, when Peter, faster than lighting, masked them with his usual enthusiasm. Rumlow saw them, clearer than daylight.

This afternoon, he dropped his glass when Bucky slammed the refrigerator non too gently. Rumlow wasn’t in the kitchen, but he could hear the crashing noise from the stair. He didn’t have to ask because FRIDAY, being informative as ever and well, informed him. But he did indeed ask about other details regarding Peter’s physiology at that particular moment.

His heart rate went crazy.

That was actually concerning.

One day, in his office, while he was busy typing away reports in his laptop—Steve could be a naggy old man at times— his concern manifested into a six foot, organic mass, in a form of conceited if not asshole of a sorcerer cum master of mystic arts. Aah, just great. Just what he needed.

For a minute, they didn’t say anything towards each other when at any other time, Rumlow would usually open fire at sudden entity turning up in his room. Stephen Strange didn’t do anything that could raise any suspicion—of course, appearing out of nowhere uninvited was suspicious enough— or alarm. He just stood there at the other side of the room, back leaned against the wall behind him with his hands crossed over his chests.

On his part, the former HYDRA agent stopped his typing, fingers lingered above the keyboard. He took a sip of his coffee, but that’s about it. Their silence interaction was unreal. Almost unreal. If Rumlow hadn’t known how Stephen Strange looked like, the man would have assumed that the other was his imaginary friend, or better, his consciousness.

Then again, he understood the quiet interaction in between them. They had no common ground. Rumlow was HYDRA Agent slash SHIELD slash STRIKE agent while Stephen was a doctor prior to being a sorcerer which in his current and past self, had no business with them or Avengers alike. Of course, after the big war, the man made an appearance once in a while during meetings. But they’ve never spoken to each other. Stephen clearly had nothing to address to him and Rumlow too, had nothing to address to the other. There was no issue of past history or bad chemistry; there was no need of verbal interaction in between them.

“Something is wrong with your boy.” Stephen suddenly spoke with a voice that was deeper than Steve. And yeah, now there was a need for verbal interaction in between them. “And you know it.”

From hovering above the keyboard, Rumlow now had his hands at either side of his laptop, tapping on the surface of his table slightly. “Why are you telling me this?”

The sorcerer seemed to mull on the question. After a while, the creepy cloak of his, which the former agent might add, had mind on its own, began tugging and prodding Stephen impatiently. Together, they might have planned to sky dive and Rumlow still wouldn’t care less. But it was disturbing, nevertheless.

Stephen glared at the cloak behind him before saying, “When we were on our way to space, me, Tony and your kid.” He mentioned with his hand. “I told Tony that between him, the kid and the Time Stone, I will not hesitate to let either of them die.”

On his chair, Rumlow didn’t say anything, because he still searching, still thinking, the direction where the confession was heading too.

“The thing is, there is only one empty slot around here for the emotionally constipated bastard. But it’s already filled. By me.” To emphasize his point, Stephen pointed at himself with his thumbs. “So you can stop pretending like you don’t care and start acting and start showing that you do care about Peter Parker.”

The chair shifted slightly when Rumlow leaned back and heaved a deep sigh. One part of him wanted to melt into the chair. The rest and majority part of him wanted to... to be fair, he didn’t know what he wanted at the moment.

“You do know that he—” Rumlow started.

“Yes.”

“How do you—”

“I was a doctor, remember?” Stephen deadpanned. “We all learned the basics during med school. And of course, I had an accident myself in case you didn’t now.”

Rumlow knew, about the accident.

The cloak, again, must have been bored out of its mind as it poked Stephen in the cheek. The man only swatted it away with his hand and glared. “I’m a sorcerer, Rumlow.” He said after the third swat.

At that point, Rumlow didn’t know whether to ignore the cloak or simply stuff it into a washing machine.

“I protect this reality. I protect the earth from mystical threat. Obviously, you know that.” He then shrugged. “So obviously I don’t care about HYDRA, or SHIELD or even Avengers or all of your agendas. But Peter Parker,” Eyes down, the sorcerer’s eyes fixated on the fingers tapping against his forearms. Stephen very much rarely talked about nice things, opting more on sarcasm despite his status and maturity. Even right now, he didn’t want to admit that he was actually, running out of vocabulary for nice words.

“He’s alright.” He finally said. “So if you could just—”

As if on cue, Rumlow’s phone went off. Looking down, the former agent saw the name flashing on the screen.

May. It actually bothered him that he wasn’t surprised to find May calling him.

“And that is your cue.” Stephen nodded at the phone before a portal appeared behind the sorcerer. He only lifted an eyebrow before stepping into the circle. The circle then engulfed him, shrunk and disappeared and just like how he appeared, Stephen Strange was off the vicinity.

Left disturbed and slightly annoyed, Rumlow pinched the bridge of his nose few times. Only then, he picked up his phone.

“Brock.” At the other end of the line, May sounded distressed. “It’s Peter. He—there’s something wrong with him.”

Rumlow was already stranding up, keys in hand, wallet in pocket. The chair behind him almost toppled over at the sudden force, but the man couldn’t even bother to fix it. “Yeah, I know. I’m on way there.” _Well, almost on his way._

He didn’t stop when Steve—as he passed the man at the hallway—asked him where the fire was.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

When he arrived, hot on his heels, he noticed the door wasn’t locked. So Rumlow didn’t bother knocking or pressing the doorbell and continued to open it and went inside. He found May at the hallway, in front of Peter’s closed room, pacing anxiously. Her pacing stopped almost immediately when she saw him crossing the front entrance.

They met halfway in the living room.

“He hasn’t come out from his room.” May informed. It was school day and it was work day for May. But with her being here, clearly she had taken a day off.

“He said he had headache, but I know it’s not that.” She continued. “He gets jumpy, he couldn’t sleep, sometimes out of focus and then there’s this... night terror.” Glancing towards the closed door, May rubbed her arm. “He didn’t want me to say anything so I didn’t, because it comes and go. I thought it was his body adjusting to his ability. But then it gets worse and more frequent. And this morning, he didn’t want to leave his room.”

Rumlow too, glanced towards the door, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Alright. Okay. Urm—”

“What’s wrong with him, Brock?”

“If he has what I think he’s having...” Again, Rumlow looked at the door. “Let me talk to him first, alright?”

May only nodded and sidestepped as the man headed towards Peter’s room.

Three knocks and Rumlow tested the integrity of the doorknob. It wasn’t locked, so the former STRIKE commander pushed the door opened by leaning his weight against it with his elbow.

Inside, it was dark. Figured, with the blind completely covering the window. Even the lapel between the curtains was clipped together using the paper clip to deny any access of light from outside. There, in the middle of the mattress of the lower bunk bed, Rumlow could see a huge lump, covered completely by the blanket from head to toe. He imagined the teen was curling beneath the mass with only the top of his head visible.

“Please close the door, May.” The lump croaked. Rumlow actually had to strain his ears to hear the teens’ mumble. “...head hurts.”

Hand still by the doorknob, the man didn’t correct the teen. Instead, he gently closed the door behind him before striding across the room. Except for the bed where the corner bed sheet was almost detangled from the mattress probably due to violent tousling, everything else was in order. His books, his school bag, his clothes inside the wardrobe, etc.

The mattress dipped under his weight when Rumlow sat down at the side. “Hey.”

In instant, the lump jolted before sitting up abruptly. Too abruptly in fact, that Peter later hissed and clutched on the side of his head.

“Easy, easy.” Rumlow said, expecting the reactions.

For a while, his breathings whistled through his clenched teeth, stuttered, laboured even. Like breathing itself was an act of challenge. Then Peter removed his hand, slowly but still avoiding eye contact with Rumlow. With his hair that was stuck into different direction, the teen looked down at the blanket that was pooled around his waist.

Rumlow stayed in his spot, not wanting to intrude others’ space and wanting Peter to find his bearing. So he waited, and waited until the teens’ breathing has calmed down, noting the thin layer of sweat covering his forehead and neck. When he finally looked up, even with poor illumination, the former HYDRA agent couldn’t dismiss the way Peter’s eyes dilated and wavered ever so slightly.

He sniffed and frowned, like Peter wanted to maintain the level of pain caused by the headache.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked, voice raw, as tugged on the loose thread of his blanket.

“I was told you’ve been experiencing discomforts.” The man didn’t mince with his words. From his peripheral, Peter looked uncomfortable with the subjects. “Wanna tell me about it?”

Peter didn’t, clearly. With the way he was keeping his head back down and dragging his fingers along the fabric of his blanket as he made clenching and unclenching motion. But Rumlow appeared obstinate today, leaving no room for the teen to dodge.

“It’s my senses at first.” The teen said, finally caved in. “They’ve gotten sharper, much more than they used to. I see every little thing, I hear even smallest noise. Everything just flooding in and I can’t stop them and it’s hurting my head.” Another sniff and Peter licked his lips. “I can’t concentrate in class because I get jumpy at everything. Sometimes they get better, some days they get worse.”

“How about nightmares?” Rumlow prompted.

The teen nodded, albeit slowly. “Sometimes when I’m awake too. I’m seeing... stuffs.” Under the minimal illumination, Peter didn’t squint, in contrast with Rumlow who had difficulty catching everything in the room. His skin too, was lacking the usual lustre. It was pale now, combined with the dark shadow under his eyes, it was safe to say that the teen hasn’t had a proper rest since god knew how long.

“What did you see?” When Peter didn’t appear to answer anytime soon, Rumlow dove further. “The war?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed when Peter made a dry swallow. He nodded.

“Thanos?”

Another nod.

“Look—”

“Don’t tell the others.” Suddenly, the teen’s breath hitched and he squinted. Rumlow only imagined the pain and the throbbing inside Peter’s head intensified. “They can’t—”

“Calm down—”

“—it’ll get better, seriously! I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry.”

Even if he wanted to, Rumlow couldn’t stop Peter from talking. To him, the more the teen talked, the more he was distressing himself.

“You really don’t have to worry.” Voice cracked, the teen was clearly overwhelmed. He was confused, he was frustrated, he was in pain, he was scared, he was everything. “You wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

That was it. Something was dropped. Unfortunately, it landed at a very bad location.

Rumlow placed both hands on either side of the teens’ shoulder. “Peter.” He shook once, pulling the other from his trance. “I need to stop you right there.”

In slight fear, Peter stopped and pinched his lips together. Rumlow’s voice has gone eerie steel.

“Why are you saying this?” Eyes slightly narrowed, the former agent put himself in the teens’ line of sight.

In contrast with him, Peter’s eyes were wide, a slight mist covering them. He was shaken. Rumlow could feel the muscles beneath his palms quivered ever so slightly.

“Do you think the reason that I put you with the Parkers is because I don’t want anything to do with you?” Rumlow’s voice was low. He didn’t shout and he doubted his voice travelled beyond the door and walls. But it sure did have effect on the teen.

Rumlow only allowed Peter to take a moment of breather before he continued. “I put you with the Parkers. You were raised by the Parkers. But no matter what the circumstances is, you are my son. And I’m your father.”

If there was anything the teen wanted to say, all the words had withered behind his teeth.

“My duty as a father will never stop no matter where you are and it is also my duty to get worried if anything ever happens to you. Do you hear me?” The last sentence was spoken in deliberate slowness. “Nod if you understand.”

Peter didn’t nod. Instead, he sniffed. Little sniffles at first, before they escalated into more palpable. Not hysterical, but enough to shake his shoulders. Along the way, the thin mist Rumlow saw earlier had thickened, accumulated and gotten heavier and when the teen blinked, it spilled down from both eyes, leaving marks as they continued downwards and along the cheeks. His cheeks, now, were spotting rosy colour.

They were caught midway when Peter wiped them away with his palms. “I’m sorry.” His voice was almost hidden behind the stuttered breath as the teen continued to wipe his tears away. Some escaped and continued the continued to roll down, hung on his chin for a second or two before dripping down, caught by the blanket. By now, Rumlow’s hands were no longer on Peter’s shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” More sniffles made an appearance as Peter failed to swallow them down. “I don’t know why I said it. I don’t—” He stopped his words only to wince before holding the left side of head. “... my head really hurts.”

“Alright. Easy.” Rumlow quickly shushed the teen, everything then temporarily forgotten. “Better if you lay down.” Placing a hand just below the neck, Rumlow supported Peter’s body to help him to lie down.

As soon as his head hit the centre of his pillow, Peter sighed softly. He didn’t pull the blanket up, only letting it to bunch around his legs.

“I’ll go get some pain killer.” The former HYDRA muttered as he turned around and headed for the door.

He barely made to second step when from behind, Rumlow heard Peter spoke in a small voice.

“You know,” There was shuffling of fabric against fabric. When the man turned around, Peter was on his side, one hand slipped beneath the pillow as he stared at Rumlow. Now that his wet cheek was rubbed against the pillow, a subtle tear stain was left on the fabric surrounded it.

“... I went to SHIELD headquarters a couple of time before this. Way before the building went down. But I always left right before I reach the lobby.”

Ever so slowly, Rumlow turned around. It took a few seconds for him to register Peter’s words. “Why?” He finally asked.

“I wanted to tell people that I’m your son. Not about the HYDRA thing, only about me.”

Curling his knees slightly closer to his chest, Peter continued in a voice slightly above whisper. “I thought that if the words about me being your kid got around and if I’m exposed to danger, you’d stop whatever you were doing. That maybe, I could save you.”

“Why didn’t you?” Rumlow heard himself asking.

“Because you believed in HYDRA.” Peter hand beneath the pillow shifted a bit. He was clenching his fingers. “You believed.” He repeated. “There was no room for me. Or anything else.”

The man couldn’t move. Like he was enchanted. Like he was obligated to stay.

“Why didn’t you bring me with you?” The teen breathed out. Once. Twice. “After mom died, why didn’t you bring me with you?”

“You know why.” He finally answered after two beats. “If I had brought you with me, you wouldn’t turn out to be the person you are now.”

“You don’t know that.” His words came out in harsh whisper. “You don’t get to decide that.” As though realizing that he had touched something delicate, Peter buried his face and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know why I said that.”

Eyes trained on the teen, Rumlow felt something was crawling from the deepest part of his belly. He felt his skin prickled. He felt his throat raw. More than anything, he felt sick.

Rumlow didn’t realize when he had left the room. He didn’t remember crossing the room. He certainly didn’t remember closing the door.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

As his legs carried him to the kitchen, Rumlow heard noises. A ringing noise. A thundering noise. An empty noise. Everything was everywhere inside his head. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t find his bearing even though his hands were bracing against the counter top. He barely felt his body shaken by May in desperate attempt to shock the man from his reverie.

On top of all, Rumlow couldn’t decide which from what. Those unholy feelings that he felt just now inside Peter’s room, he brought them with him. Now, even as he stood outside, the feelings intensified, clinging on him, scratching his skin raw.

“I can’t do this.” Rumlow wasn’t sure if May heard him. Because right now, it felt like he couldn’t breathe, like his body was denied from its right.

May, wide eyes and brows furrowed, stood next to him. “Can’t do what?”

Bringing his hand up to rub on his face, the man breathed out harshly, feeling the tightness in his chest. “I can’t fix this, May.” He turned his to the side, meeting May’s bewildered gaze with his frustrated frown. “I can’t—he doesn’t want me here, alright?”

If there was anything he certain at the moment, it was that May didn’t like what she was hearing. “Then who else would he want?”

“I don’t know! Maybe Stark. He always looks after him, right? Or Rogers. But not this,” Rumlow beckoned himself with his hand. “... this mess that doesn’t know how to be a parent.”

“And you think I know?! Or Ben did?” When May spoke, the air around them shook slightly. “But Ben and I were here, weren’t we? Look,” She grabbed on Rumlow’s shoulders, pulled him around so she could face him squarely. “I don’t know what he told you just now, but it could be just his fever talking.”

Rumlow scoffed. “If it is, that’s one damn clever fever.”

Standing few inches shorter than the man, May narrowed his eyes. “Brock, this is not about what he wants. It’s about what Peter needs. Right now, he needs you, the parent. You look after him. You, the father. Not me, the foster aunt or anyone else. You decided to be a parent. But Peter,” She pointed at the door leading to Peter’s room. “He doesn’t get to decide who his parent is.”

“So, get a grip.” She took a deep breath only to exhale. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to freak out.”

After the outburst, Rumlow didn’t immediately speak, though he did part his lips slightly. There was an impulse where part of him wanted to suppress his thought. But at the same time, breaking the narrowing tunnel vision was realization, at the gravity of the situation. It just sank in, together with May’s words. Like an echo, they kept bouncing off every wall inside his head, slowly replacing the thundering noise and curbing the sense of panic into the tiniest corner of his mind.

Now, Rumlow could see the situation, the option. Now, he could think.

“You’re right. Fuck, you’re right.” The man sucked in a breath. “I still can’t fix this, though.” He swallowed and fished out his phone from his pocket. “But I know who can.”

Alerted, May stared as Rumlow walked away into the living room, only to stop when his knees bumped against the coffee table. “Who are you calling?”

“Stark.” He said simply, placing the phone against his ear.

“Brock.” She warned.

Rumlow shushed her and pointed at the phone with his other free hand. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me on this, alright?”

On the forth ring, it was picked up and Tony was already at the other side of the line.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Help finally arrived.

But it didn’t come in a form of Tony Stark.

It arrived in a form of T’Challa, the King of Wakanda.

To say that May was bewildered was an understatement. To say that Peter was shocked was extremely understatement. Boy physically shot up from his bed and hit his head against the frame of the top bunk bed. When he whined in pain, he sounded a lot like his usual self instead of grumpy teenager that hissed and spit at Rumlow earlier on.

“I thought you called Stark.” Sidled next to Rumlow by the doorframe, May whispered.

“I did.”

They both watched as the young king examined Peter’s eyes with a flash pen. It was kind of disappointing, in May’s opinion, for the king of technological advance nation to use such... standard equipment. But then her interest level spiked beyond the roof when T’Challa younger sister, using her Kimoyo beads, scanned the teens’ body and projected a holographic image of Peter’s brain. Much like CT scan, but with advance readings and advance complexity. Hate to admit, May was no doctor or technician but it sure held her captivated.

“I called Stark because I had no idea how to get in contact with this guy in person other than answering machine.” Hands crossed over his chest, Rumlow answered May. “So far, he’s the one with enhancement almost similar to Peter, so I figured he may have an idea on which is what.”

May hummed and whispered, “Last time, didn’t you almost blow up almost half of Lagos..?”

Other time, Rumlow would have done dramatic eye roll. But now, was not the appropriate time. So he settled with a flat look. “Geographically, Lagos is not part of Wakanda. So, I’m not really feeling that guilty right now.”

“Really an example of morality, aren’t you, Brock.”

He frowned when May’s lips gave a sharp curl at one end. “Shut up. And stop whispering. He can hear you, you know.”

On cue, T’Challa looked at the sideway and raised an eyebrow. May quickly turned to stare at the invisible spot on wall.

“Wow.” In awe, Shuri’s eyes widened two fractions, both fixated on the hologram. “Look at this, brother. His neurons are firing like crazy. I’ve never seen anyone’s brain this... active.”

In need to share his sister interest, T’Challa turned away from the subject of his study, giving a once over at the image. Top to bottom, left to right, his eyes moved, his mind, calculating. Then he turned back to focus on Peter, studying the dilatation of the teens’ eyes under the light.

Satisfied with the assessment, T’Challa clicked the flash pen off. He was sitting on the bed in front of Peter, one ankle tucked neatly beneath his other thigh. Free from his usual royal robes and details, the Wakandan now was in simple dark, long sleeved crow neck t-shirt and jeans.

One look, if you didn’t watch or read news or not on social media, anyone would have observed him as your everyday, overly smart man.

“The PTSD signs are obvious.” The young king said, finally un-tucking his legs only to let them both dangled over the edge of the mattress, his arms braced against his knees as he faced May and Rumlow. “But I’m certain that you’re aware of that.”

The king wasn’t wrong with his assumption, so Rumlow didn’t feel the need to address it. Instead, he shifted his concern to another matter. “I’m more concerned about his senses.”

“Yes, that.” He made a motion with his fingers and the holographic image enlarged. “How long has this been going on, Mr. Parker?”

Just like that, Peter snapped his head up before clearing his throat. “Errm, after the war.”

“Concurrent with the nightmares?”

A small nod.

A minute or two clocked away as T’Challa soaked up the information, processed the information along with details from the hologram. “Here’s what currently happening inside Mr. Parker’s brain.” T’Challa nodded at the image. “These blue currents we are seeing here are his neurons activities that carry information. And the red mappings represent his brain activity. And it’s just as my sister has said, the neurons are working extremely hard as we speak. More than any average humans, but that probably because of his enhancement. I take that Mr. Parker could see and hear everything at heightened levels.”

“Yeah.” Peter confirmed. “But there are getting more sensitive than usual.”

T’Challa nodded. “So I assume. But my concern here is more on the brain’s activity level. They’re lacking, or at least, not on par with the neurons’.”

Brows scrunched together, Peter shook his head. “I—I don’t understand. I mean, I am thinking right now, but you’ve said the activity level is low.”

On the mattress, T’Challa shifted slightly. With a flick of his wrist, he transferred the image so that it was projected from his own beads. As he did so, Shuri walked towards the Peter’s study table, pulled a chair and sat down.

“It’s at normal level.” The king made a correction. “Generally, your brain is working. But it’s not working in correct manner. I’d say everything inside is a bit of a mess. I know we are both different people but our enhancement carry almost similar traits. So I have to assume that whatever is happening to you right now is the same to what I’d experienced some years ago.”

Amid his ordeal, Peter clearly failed to ward off his curious nature entirely. “What happened?”

“Shuri shot me with her plasma gun. It left me messed up for a while.” T’Challa said flatly.

Few feet away, Shuri groaned. “That was million years ago. It was an accident!” At the last sentence, her voice raised by eight notes. When Peter winced and hissed, the princess quickly covered her mouth.

Peter aside, even the king winced.

“Shuri, maybe you should have some tea instead.” As subtle as he could muster, T’Challa raised his eyebrow, hinting at May.

Their wavelength connected and May quickly clapped his hands. “Right, tea!”

“Are you kicking me out?” Was the accusation she threw. “And here I was about to investigate his room! Well, I don’t see porn magazines anywhere, which is odd.”

Confused and slightly alarmed, Peter had his eyebrows shot up.

“—but he has retro tech going on here. Even better! Brother, look, a microcomputer!”

When her outburst was met with T’Challa flat look, Shuri finally yielded, only after huffing and puffing like a steam train. “Fine, fine.” She rolled her eyes, stood up and strode away, only after securing the motherboard that Peter was currently working on into her hands, no doubt for her to analyse over tea and biscuits.

“Don’t eat the fruit cake.” Rumlow muttered under his breath just as the princess passed him at the doorframe. “It’s horri—”

The former agent failed to convey the rest of his warning when May, with all her might, elbowed Rumlow in the ribs. Hard. Then she left him with unholy satisfaction when she heard the man grunted in pain, leading Shuri to the kitchen.

Rumlow was still experiencing unbelievable pain when he heard the Panther King said, “Are you alright..?”

In which he only responded, “I can taste my ribs.”

While amusement flickered in T’Challa’s eyes, Rumlow took few painful breaths before addressing the subject of their earlier discussion. “You were saying about his brain..?”

“Of course. I was saying about Mr. Parker’s brain not working properly.” The king returned his attention back to Peter. “His heightened senses picked up information from his surroundings. A lot faster than normal humans and a lot faster than his enhanced body usually does. The neurons are working alright as they carry the information received. But lack of red mappings means the information the neurons carry are not being sorted through. Logically, everything needs to work together.” 

Peter watched as T’Challa dispersed the hologram and mulled on the man’s words. A bit longer than he would have preferred. “So everything that I see or hear...”

“The information is not processed. While the neurons are all firing away, you brain’s capacity is not working fast enough. That’s the reason why you’re feeling overwhelmed. That is why you couldn’t sleep. Your heightened senses are only a part of the problem.”

At lost, the teen tugged on fabric of his blanket a bit harder. “... why is this happening to me?”

T’Challa turned to Rumlow. “We don’t know how it happened but there were a lot going on during the war with Thanos. Everyone was fighting everything thrown at them. And each of them might even have different abilities which we were unaware of. Something back there must have caused the disruption in his body, physically or mentally.”

“Could the PTSD making it worse?” The former STRIKE Commander nodded at the teen.

“That I can’t give you an exact answer.” T’Challa confessed. “His condition may have aggravated his PTSD or the other way around.”

Deep breath, Rumlow looked at Peter’s state—frustrated, overwhelmed and almost out of his mind. “And if it continues?”

“His mind will break.”

Liquid chill travelled along his spine and Rumlow felt his heart lurched. “Can you fix it?”

“Well,” Brushing away the invisible dirt on his jeans, the king smiled, albeit reassuringly. “It will surely kill both Shuri’s and my ego if we came here without any means to fix it. Since you had explained quite thoroughly of his condition with minimal words over the phone call, I was able to prepare accordingly. I am aware that Mr. Parker is dealing with PTSD as well, but I want to address his other problem first.”

“I agree.”

There was a small black case the king carried with him when he arrived which he placed on the floor next to the bed. T’Challa picked it up, setting the case on the mattress in between Peter and him and loosened the clasps. When opened, from where Rumlow stood, he could see five six vials inside, all arranged neatly next to each other.

Rumlow was actually a bit surprised at the revelations. So he didn’t hide it. “I was expecting you’d offer a treatment similar to what Barnes had received.”

“The treatment we gave to Sergeant Barnes was only to remove his conditioning. Nothing more.” T’Challa clarified the man with a meaningful look. “We didn’t erase his memory of sort. If you’re asking if we could erase the traumatic images from Mr. Parker to help with his PTSD, it’s not that we can’t, but rather, I won’t.”

So far, Crossbones haven’t made an appearance, so the king deemed it was safe to breach the subject further. “Our minds are delicate, not a machine that can be poked and prodded. I didn’t trust such invasive procedure to be conducted on a hardened person like Sergeant Barnes and I will not going to start it on your child.” 

_Your child..._ it sure did bring huge effect on Rumlow. The man felt like he was punched in the gut, then punched again. It hurt. It was hurting so much that Rumlow didn’t say anything anymore.

The Wakandan pulled one out and held it in between his fingers, high enough for Rumlow to see as well. “Now this is something very less invasive. This is the very same thing I took back there that managed to put an end to my misery. Ironically, my sister made this.”

With hesitancy, Peter took the vial from the king. He shook it a bit to study the consistency which nothing above water, slightly captivated by the liquid’s dark, purplish colour. It was odd, almost as if it was glowing.

He dropped his hand on his laps. The hesitancy was back, now tenfold. “If I take this, won’t it, I don’t know—”

“Take away your abilities?” T’Challa continued, seemingly understood. “I can ensure you, it will not. It will dampen your senses first, ease the overloading, the headaches, slow the neurons activity so the rest of your brain could have proper R&R before the healing process can began. I have faith that this will help eliminate anything that cause disruption in your physiology. It’s not an immediate miracle worker. It needs time to work.”

Peter understood. He opened the vial and took a tentative sniff first. It didn’t really have any smell, apparently, judging by lack of weird expression on Peter. The teen looked at Rumlow, stared at the man a second or two longer before bringing the vial to his lips when the man didn’t make any type of comment, or gesture that would suggest disapproval.

There was none. In fact, Peter couldn’t read the man at all.

The teen tilted his head, the vial followed suit. No small sips, everything was down and inside in one gulp.

Taking the now empty vial from Peter’s hand, T’Challa watched as the younger licked his lips, throat still bobbing. The mixture itself was tasteless in general, so the king understood the teens’ curiosity over the taste, smell and viscosity of it. “There is another thing. You will also experience drowsiness—”

Too late. Peter’s consciousness has left, his body slumped forward, stopped by T’Challa’s chest. Deep slumber where he went as the teens’ head pillowed by the king’s shoulder, his dark lock brushed against the man’s cheek.

“Don’t be alarmed. This is quiet a normal reaction.” His words were meant for Rumlow, when said man indeed, appeared alarmed.

“Is he going to be like that each time he takes that medicine?”

“Only for the first time.” The king gently moved the teen’s body, arranging Peter so the younger laid comfortably on the mattress. “Let him rest for now. He needs it.” Through the corner of his eyes, T’Challa could see Rumlow slowly walking up towards them, only stopping when his knees were a foot apart from the edge of the mattress.

Face relaxed, the teen whole features were now softened, muscles included. No longer laboured, his breathings now have fallen into a steady rhythm, with snores that were barely audible.

T’Challa patted the teens’ arm softly before standing up, the case in his hand with the remaining vials of medicine. “Have him take this, one for each day.” He passed the case to Rumlow. “Then we will see from there. After his first course, if his condition requires, he may need to continue with the medication with adjusted dose.”

“Yeah, sure.” Rumlow nodded, heading for the door with the king one step behind.

It wasn’t until T’Challa closed the door behind him that he spoke again. “I may have been rude with my words earlier when I disagreed with the treatment. I thought it is best for his mind to heal on its own with time and help from his surroundings rather than doing patchworks and then forcing it to mend them.”

“Don’t.” Shaking his head, the former agent kept his pace slow. From the hallway, he could hear the princess’s voice accompanied by May’s coming from the dining room. “You were right. I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. And thank you, for all of this. Thank you for coming here.”

Hands behind his back, fingers laced together, the young king smiled slightly. “I’m not here as Black Panther fulfilling his obligation to help his ally, Spiderman. I want to be here to help Mr. Parker as a friend.”

“I appreciate that.”

They were just about to exit the hallway when T’Challa stopped the other on his track. “One more thing. This is a suggestion, but I believe it will do good to Mr. Parker if he could, for a while, be relieved from his avenging duties. And when I say avenging,” The Wakandan paused momentarily. “I mean all activities involving the Avengers and Spiderman alike.”

Rumlow shared the knowing look. “You got it, boss.”

When they got to the living room, both Shuri and May were at the dining table with the later holding on her mug. Despite her eyes trained on whatever the princess was working on—on the motherboard to be precise—she looked distracted, obviously still worrying over the outcome of the king’s assessment on her nephew’s wellbeing. There were a plate of biscuits and sliced cakes in the middle of the table with most of the cakes almost gone.

The cake was gone... It was actually disturbing to know that in Brock’s view.

“Shuri!” The king looked like he wanted to smack the princess wondering, poking and prodding hand. “Put that down. You’ll ruin his work.”

“No. I’m perfecting it.” As she chewed on the last piece of cake, Shuri digressed. Even without her laboratory, she sure knew how to operate with minimal equipment she has brought with her. Though, if memory served right, T’Challa failed to recall any of those being smuggled into the plane earlier.

“Shuri.”

She relented, eventually and dropped whatever she was planning, only after rolling her eyes dramatically and sighed dramatically. “Fine.” Now, she finally appeared like a normal teenager, full of sass and attitude.

“We shall take our leave then.” T’Challa said with Shuri sidling close to him.

Even the princess had enough manners to wave them goodbye. “Thanks for the cake.” When Rumlow flashed another weird look, Shuri only responded, “It has acquired taste.”

Really, Rumlow didn’t want to know what exactly she meant by that.

May walked the royals to the door. “Thanks for everything.”

“You are welcome.” T’Challa stopped by the door. It was quiet inside the building. Nothing uncommon during weekdays where most occupants have either went to work or school. “Call us if there’s anything concerning.”

“We will.”

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

“Well?” She prompted Brock, eyes searching for good news. It wasn’t even two seconds after she had closed the door.

The man sat on the couch armrest, a significant weight was lifted from his shoulders. “He gave him some sort of medicine. The rest is in here.” He beckoned the case in his hand, before placing it on the carpeted floor. “He’s sleeping right now.”

“Sleeping? Like real sleep, deep sleep?”

“Yeah, real sleep. I have good feeling the medicine is going to help him.”

There was a short stretch of silence door, a quiet breathing, a quick sense of serenity inside the apartment.

Then, Rumlow was the first to break it.

“Hey, May.”

“Hmm?”

“I was thinking...” Rumlow paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s better if Peter stays with me for a while. Until things get better.”

May was harbouring the same idea in her mind, apparently. “Yes! Yes, that’s a good idea, Brock. So you’re going to bring him to..?”

“I had a place in mind. A bit far away.” The former agent informed, silently gauging for a negative reaction from May at the idea of bringing Peter to a place completely out of her sight.

More than everything it seemed, May was comfortable with the thought that Rumlow would be the one to keep a close eye on her nephew. “Okay.”

“Can you help me pack his stuffs?” Standing up, Rumlow pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I need to make a call.”

“Yeah, sure.” She was quick on her feet, already making her way towards Peter’s room.

On his part, Rumlow was quick as well, wasting no time searching a particular name inside his contact list. Once he located it, the man tapped on the name and brought the phone to his ear. The line was picked up on the fifth ring.

“Rumlow?” Steve gave a questioning mark at his name.

“Cap.” He only confirmed it swiftly.

When there was a small hiatus in Rumlow’s side of conversation, Steve continued. “Is everything okay?” He asked, concerned. “Is Peter alright?”

Right on the mark.

Rumlow sighed, closed his eyes and rubbed the spot in between his brows. “No. He’s not alright, Cap.” He confessed. No point in saying otherwise. The Steve at the other end of the line didn’t say anything. Odd. Steve always has something to say. “I’ll be going away for a while. I’m taking Peter with me.”

“...”

“...”

“I understand.”

He expected more questions from Steve, or at least some kind of disagreement. What he didn’t expect was an understanding acknowledgement.

“Do you need any help?”

That, Rumlow expected.

He shook his head, as though Steve could see him. “Nah, its fine. I got this.” From the living room, Rumlow could hear the subtle hustling and bustling in Peter’s room as May busied herself with packing necessities into the luggage.

“Okay. You’ll call us if there’s anything..?”

Steve was worried. Rumlow wasn’t surprised. “U-huh. I will.”

“Alright. Take care.”

The line went dead just in time for May to return to the living room, luggage in hand.

“Okay.” Out of breath, she dropped the luggage onto the floor. “I’ve packed everything.”

Slightly disturbed, Rumlow glanced at the luggage, then back at her. The luggage looked... humongous. In other way of saying, the luggage looked like something that has eaten Peter instead.

“He’s not moving out forever. You do realize that, right?” The man said with raised eyebrow.

“I know. You’ll bring him back when he’s better.” May wrapped her arms around the other’s shoulders and said, “Look after him, Brock.”

Rumlow patted her back and breathed, long.

“I know.”

**\--To be Continued--**


	6. Inside The Cabin Within Orange Orchard, Our Voices Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up from his slumber in unfamiliar place. Away from everyone's prying eyes, words spoken, words that they've both tucked away for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. An early warning of fake name 'Leo Barnes' used by Rumlow. The name itself is the name of character from 'The Purge: Election Years' played by the same actor. I'm too lazy to think of pseudo name, so I just picked one randomly. The sin is mine alone. 
> 
> 2\. No cat was harm in the making of this chapter. The cat himself is actually mine in real life along with the pictures below. Every little physical details, back stories and personalities are based on him, no salt and pepper added. The only un-real thing is his name to suit him better into the storyline.

* * *

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

When Peter laid his eyes upon an off-dimension creature, he remembered thinking, ‘Oh, God.’ Then he remembered not recognizing the bed, the pillow and the blanket. He also remembered shooting up from the bed, heart thrumming inside his chest, he remembered getting his legs tangled by the blanket then untangled, he remembered doing backward frog leap and he definitely remembered falling off the bed.

Now, ten seconds later, the teen was whining at the pain assaulting the back of his head, where it had landed unceremoniously on the hard wooden floor. His limbs were twisted in funny ways, but level of discomfort was tolerable.

Peter sat up, hand rubbing the sore spot on his head and well, gave few thoughts of everything has transpired inside the room. Not that much had transpired inside the room, but still, in his defense, they were plenty of issues he wanted to focus on. Like the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar bed, the newness of everything.

Of course, there was this issue of the off dimensional creature lounging on his bed—or not his bed, whatever—, stretched like had no business with Peter, or the world as a matter of fact. It was fury, four legged with gray, thick dense coat covering the body to protect it from elements. There were whiskers going on, a little bit line and swirling on its coat. The paws were alright, like they were wearing white socks, but the tail, wasn’t. It was stubby, short, which ended with a kind of ball and the tail bones were bent at three different sections.

Furthermore, it’s fat, closely stepping on the borderline of obesity.

It looked like a cat, stretched out like a cat, and yawned like a cat. But somehow, in Peter’s mind, it was anything but a CAT.

For some odd reason, the teen felt the need to address the creature topped everything else.

The door then opened. Someone entered. But the immense need to scrutinize the not-cat fat creature caused the slow reaction. It took a full minute for Peter to acknowledge. Still sitting on the floor, the teen looked up, only to find Rumlow filling the doorway.

The man looked... different. In a way that Peter was not accustomed to. Gone the black t-shirt and tac pants and boots, Rumlow was wearing a dark, loose long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He appeared, dare the teen assumed, laid back with minimal lines in between his brows and minimal tension wiring his muscles taut together. This Rumlow was domestic.

... is that spatula in his hand..?

Then again, with a handful of issues that Peter could point out, the first question fired from his mouth was, “What is that?”

So he pointed at the not-cat creature on his bed.

Rumlow followed his hand, eyes travelled and slowly landed on it. It stared back at Rumlow with an equally uninterested expression, only ten times stronger. Then it yawned again, stretched, stared at them both with half lidded eyes and laid back down. How it was able to put together such expression with such efficiency was beyond Peter.

“It’s a cat.” Rumlow stated flatly.

Peter had to digress. “No it’s not.” There was a noise coming from the creature, causing the bed to vibrate and shake. It was purring and the noise causing the mattress to shake. Less than a purr, the creature had probably swallowed a lawn mower.

“It’s a creature that swallowed two cats and a lawn mower. Or it an Enhanced cat?” 

Defeated, the man sighed. He sighed, clearly. Like Peter was the anomaly here. He thought it was unfair.

“How are you feeling?” The man dodged the subject. No matter. Peter would file it for later discussion.

The teen sniffed, finding answer. His head felt much lighter with only a touch of throbbing. Just a touch. The light streaming from the window wasn’t hurting his eyes and although he could hear the slightest whistle from a kettle and chirping of fledglings from a nest outside, Peter could handle them. In short, he was feeling better. Well rested.

“Much better.” Peter tried to smooth out all the kinks and flyways on his head only to have them popped back up. “My head still hurting, just a little.”

Rumlow moved, venturing further inside, only stopping next to the bed. In his current position—still seating on the floor—Peter had to crane his neck a bit to get the man’s into his line of sight. “Do you remember what happened?” He asked, hand reaching for the lawnmower of a cat, scratching the top of its head which only made it to purr even louder.

Forget about lawnmower. There was an earthquake going on in his bed.

Still lying on its side, the creature then caught Rumlow’s hand with its front paws and brought it close to his mouth. The teen had expected for it to bite, gauge or expressing whatever homicidal intent it was harbouring. Instead, it just nibbled on the man’s fingers playfully, barely putting pressure in its jaws with claws only appearing at the tips with the attention to keep Rumlow’s hand in place.

And Rumlow let it. He didn’t glare or open fire. He just... let his fingers inside the jaws and the man was unfazed. Nobody could blame if Peter looked like he was sexually harassed. Alright, weird.

“Eerm,” Pausing, the teen kept on glancing at Rumlow’s hands, at the not-cat-thing, then back at the man. Just in case if he was losing a finger or two. “Yeah, I remember. King T’Challa came over and all that...”

_And all that... Uhuh_, he remembered everything alright. Including that part of him being heavily scolded and also that part where his mouth was running loose. But Rumlow didn’t have to be reminded that. Does he...?

Rumlow dislodged his fingers with ease from the nibbling teeth, scratched the underneath of the cat’s chin and pulled one of its ears gently. The cat in return, only made a complained sort of noise as Rumlow inched closer towards Peter and knelt down. The teen suppressed the tiniest jolt when the man pressed a palm against his forehead. 

“Your fever’s broken down. You were a bit feverish last night.” The former HYDRA agent said, then stood up. “Hungry?”

That, Peter could respond immediately. He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Starving actually.”

“Figured. Considering you’ve slept for two days.”

The cat slash living lawnmower or the fact that he has been partially vegetative for the last two days, even if he was in his best state, Peter would face difficulty in prioritizing his shock. Now, it still wouldn’t make any difference.

“Two days?!” Full alert, the teen had this sudden urge to jump on his feet, get dress and swing his way to school. Although in reality, he couldn’t even speculate their exact location or whose house, whose room he was staying at the moment. “My school! You mean I haven’t been to class—”

“Stark and May took care of your cover up story for your school. Don’t worry about it.”

It did concern Peter. Last time he had gotten himself injured; Tony had fabricated a story which suited for his absence. If May, by any chance, informed the school that he had contracted a barely abnormal disease, then, the teen felt he had every obligation to be worried.

“We’ll worry about what May told the school later.” Clearly, Peter’s concern was well noted through his facial expression. “That’s the bathroom you want to use it.” He pointed his thumb towards the direction behind him. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

As he spoke, Rumlow snapped his fingers few times, beckoning for the cat to follow. At first, he was ignored, literately. So the man resorted to different means. He extended his hand, inching the spatula closer until the smell hit the not-so-feline’s nose.

Something must have invoked the sense of hunger inside the cat, Peter deduced. Sleepiness gone, the cat now began meowing—god, he hoped it was meowing—insistently and chased after Rumlow who was now walking towards the door.

Left alone, after a minute on the floor, Peter finally found his will to forget the not-so-called cat and exhaled. He pinched the front of his shirt, sniffed, only to make a face.

“Uughh.” God, he smelled, a bit. But it was the fact he was wearing different clothes from the last time he was in Queen that made him embarrassed if not flustered. Either May or Rumlow must have changed his clothes while his consciousness was in god knows where.

As he rubbed his thigh, Peter looked back, passed the queen bed that was arranged neatly against the wall. He noticed the roof above him and dimly deduced that everything inside the room was carved within the loft. There was a window going on as well, next to his bed and without realising, the teen was already on his feet and climbed the bed to peer outside through the window. The mattress dipped as he did, more so when Peter had his knees sank into it.

Outside, everywhere, green met him in a vibrant, yet calming way. Those trees were planted, deliberately, in lines, rows after rows. There weren’t endless, as the teen could see the end of them. The trunks were shaggy, branches looked like they were tugged down, where oranges were seen hiding in between the lapels of the leaves.

It was at that moment that Peter realized they he was looking at an orchard.

As much as the teen wanted to stare further, he retreated from the window and stood up next to the bed. He noticed the familiar luggage nestled against the wall opposite him, still loaded, almost untouched despite the presence of wardrobe close by. Peter closed in, stopping only to kneel down and unzip the luggage with expectation of what lied inside—clothes, towel, two pairs of shoes and more clothes. Though expected it, he couldn’t deny the tiny disappointment from bubbling gently when he sighted no phone hiding in between the fabric.

Peter picked up the towel and swung it over his shoulder. He was awake—no thanks to the shock of finding abnormality on his bed—, but he was still groggy. Downstairs, the teen could hear the clicking noises of utensils, of mugs, of stove, imagining Rumlow working on breakfast in the kitchen. It was hard to be honest, to imagine something he has never seen.

It was odd enough to see the man in home clothes.

Behind the door of the room was a narrow hallway and another two rooms—one in the middle and another one at the end, opposite his room which also an arm reach from the spiralling stairs that led to downstairs. The balcony wooden railing was clearly handcrafted; Peter could feel the carvings and ridges beneath his palms as he placed both hands on it.

Leaning his weight forward, the teen peered down. Downstairs consisted of two storey space, open plan, clearly, with appeared like a convertible sofa bed next to the right side of the wall, small coffee table, cabinets next to it, adjacent window seat and a fire place tucked at corner. Peter couldn’t see it clearly with the limited view, but he could only guess the eat-in kitchen type and together with the dining table.

It made him felt like he was in the middle of summer cabin retreat what with the walls and ceiling lined with pine tongue and groove boards that gave the whole atmosphere a woodsy, cabin vibes.

Peter patted the rail one last time bore padding his way to the bathroom and opened the door. There was no obvious sign that indicated it was a bathroom—Rumlow general finger pointing didn’t help—, but the teen saw no need to worry about it. The worst that could happen was that he would be opening the door to Rumlow’s room instead. He doubted there would be anymore off dimension creature that topped the lawnmower of a cat lurking inside.

It was a bathroom. Peter found himself feeling a bit… disappointed. Not at the interior of the bathroom, but rather, at the selection of the room. He shrugged and stepped into the bathroom. Everything was there inside the bathroom, making most of the limited space—sink, bath tub, shower, cabinet and towel rack. The shower head looked like it’s been recently replaced, along with the cabinets. Otherwise, everything else looked pretty used, but in good condition still. 

The teen looked around and spotted the laundry basket next to the sink so he peeled his clothes off—just the top for now—and tossed it into the basket. Now half naked, Peter turned on the faucet in the sink, bent down before splashing his face with water. The water itself felt cold, felt dry, and it prickled his skin. But like a physiological stimulus, it stirred the slumbering subconscious inside him with a jolting spark. Peter did it a couple more before going up for air, like he was holding his breath just now.

Using the towel, he had brought with him, Peter patted his face in quick motion. He then leaned forward, belly almost touching the edge of the sink to study the image reflected by the mirror before him. The pallid, whitish hue on his skin hasn’t gone away completely, lips included, but it wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. The dark circle under his eyes on the other hand, has faded to where Peter could no longer see them up close.

A quick lick to his lips, Peter brought his hands down, holding on the sink to brace his weight against it. There were plenty to take in right now. So far, he only knew about the existence of an odd creature and that he has been missing school for two days and they were surrounded by orange groove. Everything else was still a mystery to him, an enigma. It made him felt like he was at disadvantage.

As he stared his reflection further, scrutinizing every contour, every dimple on his face, in his mind palace, Peter was listing out series of questions that would get him to where he wanted to be—less confused.

After all, he hated it when he was at disadvantage.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Except that, Peter spent the next half an hour inhaling his breakfast—six sausages, two eggs, 4 toasts, three waffles, few glasses of orange juice. He said inhale, because in all honesty, the teen didn’t remember chewing. All the while, he could feel amusement radiating from Rumlow as the man kept on pushing food towards his direction, but at that time, the teen was long gone. What mattered at that moment was the need to satisfy his hunger.

Peter was on his third waffle, when his horizon, slowly expanded—interior of the kitchen and the dining table.

Then, his gaze zeroed on the not-so-cat creature eating on the floor, next to the sliding door.

Unlike Peter, the feline took it’s time enjoying the meal before him—canned food of sort. It didn’t bend it’s front and back legs like most cats do when eating, probably due to his shorter limbs. Or it simply didn’t bother. The top section of the stubby tail kept on moving from left to right as it ate, almost like a tail of a swimming fish and it took every ounce of his will not to grab on it in order to stop the tail from wiggling.

“He’s still a cat you know, no matter how much you stare at him.”

Caught, Peter jolted and kept his teeth together as he looked up. Etched on Rumlow’s face, was raised single eyebrow and a smile that appeared anything but sincere.

“Uhh…” He wanted to clear his throat, but it came out as unintelligent mumble.

Unfazed, the former STRIKE leader took a seat in front of him and poured himself coffee. Black with two scoops of sugar. “And it’s a HE, with a name.”

“What’s his name then?” Peter heard himself saying, now nibbling on the tip of his fork.

Rumlow sipped on his coffee. “Tabby.”

The teen blinked and absorbed the information. Such a simple and straight forward. On the fifth second, he finally responded. “Wow. I’m glad you didn’t put ‘Boy’ in my birth certificate.”

Even if it’s just a smirk, it was very odd to see it plastered on Rumlow face. “You should be glad I wasn’t the one who named you.” He said simply as he cut the waffle on his plate into smaller pieces. The sausages, he didn’t touch them, yet.

For a moment, Peter fought a pout, or a frown. He could feel the tightness in his face. “He’s fat.” Thought the teen wanted to steer the conversation towards something more constructive, he found himself unable to leave the creature alone with his own devices. Or food.

“He’s not. He has big bones.”

“He’s like a tanker. Or a permastore tank.” Peter deadpanned.

Rumlow popped the waffle into his mouth, chewed and gave a thoughtful look. He looked like he wanted to say something. Then, he gave a defeated look. “Fine. But I’ve been trying to get him on diet.”

“How’s it going?”

“What do you think?”

In deliberate slowness, Peter shifted his gaze towards the cat who’s now polishing his breakfast slash lunch. Not well, he thought.

“How did he,” The teen said again. Subject changer. “I mean, did you adopt him from the shelter or…” He trailed.

Swallowing, the man reached for his coffee. Peter instinctively mimicked him and grabbed his own juice. “Found him hiding under the car when I was on my way back.”

“From SHIELD’s office?” He quickly snapped his lips together, almost hiding his face behind the glass. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Yeah, from SHIELD.” Rumlow seemed unfazed and continued. “He was dying. Sick like a dog.”

Peter wasn’t sure if Rumlow was making a pun joke.

“Too sick to move. I had to use the broom to pull him from under there. Of course, I could use Barnes to lift up the car, but I figured it would be too conspicuous what with Rumanoff and others being super spy and all.”

Alright, now Peter was certain that the man was making a joke.

“I didn’t know what to do with him and ended up taking him to the vet.” Rumlow paused to add more honey to his waffle. “He had pneumonia going on back there, high fever and dehydration. He was on drip for days. I thought of just paying the medical fees and leave him there and let the clinic handle him for adoption.”

“A week later I found myself going back to the clinic and taking him home with me.”

He gave a silent thought of that. Peter has heard stories like this when cats were seemingly the ones that choses those who would take care of them. It was like instinct, like they could sense the right person. So, when he saw Tabby padded his way across the room only to flop down next to Rumlow feet, Peter wanted to belief that he was one of the cats in the stories.

Poking and prodding at whatever pieces left on his plate, Peter then looked up, at Rumlow, then his gaze travelled further back, passing the man’s shoulders which landed on the kitchenette. Unlike the bathroom, the open kitchen space was larger than he had expected when looking from upstairs. The custom cabinet and soapstone for the counter top did nothing but enhance the rustic feeling inside the house. He tilted his head and saw the low hanging lamp which gave off the room an orange, warm ambience that Peter pretty much liked.

“Where are we..?” The teen finally picked his question, from top obviously.

“Vermont.”

On instinct, geographical map projected itself in his head, pinning locations and calculating routes. From Queens to Vermont was six to seven hours driving give or take. Gods, they were this far from May..?

“This place’s yours?” Peter pointed at no particular direction.

Rumlow nodded. “Yeah. Been years. The owner died and his son wanted to sell this place up. I’ve been doing repairs and renovation. Bits and pieces over the years.” Done with his breakfast, the man placed his utensils on the plate, now focusing on his coffee. And Peter of course.

And damn if that didn’t make Peter squirmed a bit. “The rooms too?”

For a split moment, the former STRIKE commander was distracted when Tabby, without warning, climbed up to his laps. “Hey—” Too late. The feline has already made himself comfortable, curling around, back pressed against Rumlow’s stomach before looking up to Peter with unholy satisfaction.

Peter wasn’t sure what to think of that.

“The rooms too.” Rumlow went back to his coffee, ignoring the cat nesting on his laps. “It’s yours by the way. The room. If you want to come here during weekend, holiday or whenever.” Something else was there along with the man’s gaze. By then, Peter didn’t know what it was or meant.

“O-oh.” He didn’t mean to sound less enthusiastic, but Rumlow did catch him off guard in his defense. “Cool.” Quickly, the teen gulped down his juice.

“There’s orange orchard outside. It’s already there when I bought this place.” Probably wanting to dismiss the awkward atmosphere, the man nodded towards the door.

Nodding, Peter placed the glass back down on the table. “I know. I saw it from upstairs. Looks a lot.”

The cat on Rumlow’s laps was unfazed when he was shifted a bit as the former STRIKE commander leaned back against the chair. “There are. I come here from time to time to collect the oranges and give them away to anyone in town.” He tilted the mug in his hand and found it empty. If Tabby wasn’t on his laps, Rumlow probably would have re-fill it. “Didn’t really know what to do with them.”

Odd. Peter thought to himself. He already had few ideas that involved plenty of oranges.

That wasn’t the only thing that was odd at the moment. It was actually odd to see Rumlow talked a lot like this. Perhaps the man hasn’t realized it, but that’s the most he has spoken even since he’s been in the tower. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the most he’s spoken in years. 

“We thought it’s best to get you out of the city for the time being.” Finally, the man laid out the ‘why’ on the table. “Away from the crazies. Let your body rest a bit.”

“How long?”

“As long as it needs.” It was the best answer Rumlow could provide at the moment, Peter could tell. “Finish this course first. Then the highness will see and decide if you need another.”

“He’s going to come here..? King T’Challa?”

“That’s the idea.” On his laps, Tabby made a trilling noise when Rumlow stroke the top of his head. “Speaking of the king,” He snuck his hand into his pocket, took out a vial and held it in between in fingers. “Here. For today.” Rumlow said after rolling it towards Peter.

With ease, the teen caught it and stared the familiar vial and content in his hand. He swallowed nervously. “If these things keep knocking me out, my school semester will end by the time I’m all better.”

“Relax.” Rumlow tried to assure which did nothing but intensify the uneasiness in Peter. “Only the first one knocked you out. The later should be fine. Milder effect, nothing more.”

Peter sighed in relief.

“I think.”

He felt his eyes widened before looking back at the vial. Aahh, the dilemma.

Still, Peter got everything down in one gulp. Frowning, the teen licked his lips few times, waiting for the after effect. Even Rumlow looked less composed himself, his hand clenched loosely on the table. Peter blinked. Once twice. Thrice. And again. Nothing happened. At least, nothing notable to his body at the moment. He sighed again in relief. “Thank God.”

The vial was already empty when Peter went to roll it on the table with his palms few times before the teen decided to turn on seat to take a look at outside. The sliding patio door offered clear view of the deck and what lied further. There were missing floor boards at the porch, like it was in mid construction and he also saw a working table outside with electric circular saw or some sort.

“I’m working on the porch’s deck now.” Peter heard Rumlow said from the other side of the table. “Worked on it before, tore it down and re-done it. Tore everything down again and working on it again.”

On his seat, Peter shifted and turned back around. “…why?”

He only shrugged. “I have time.” Rumlow said like he was building Lego instead of a cabin. “If you go outside, you’ll see a hot tub next to the open porch. Going to tear that down too.”

Peter looked up and opened his mouth.

“Unless you want to take a bath out in the open..?”

Alright. Rumlow did make his point.

“I’m not getting my phone, am I..?”

Slight confusion was mapping across the man’s features as Rumlow stared back at him and simply said, “Your phone’s in the luggage. The side pocket.”

Taken back, the teen blinked. Pocket… Right.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat, mind wondering. For some reason, he felt that it would beat the whole purpose of this recuperation process by having his phone around…

“Is there a library here?” Peter went for another approach. “Or a bookstore?”

The man took his time to answer. “The town has library. It’s not big though.” He scratched the side of his cheek. “I’m going to town later to get more boards and finishes for the flooring. I can drop you at the library if you want.”

“Okay.”

Rumlow didn’t say anything when Peter stood up and slowly walked towards the sliding door. Out of pure curiosity, he tried to take a glimpse of the tub, but only managed to see the glimpse of even after his cheek almost pressed against the glass. He reached for the handle.

At that very same moment, Tabby leaped off Rumlow’s laps and made his way quickly to the door after smelling Peter’s attention.

“Hey, buddy.” Peter cooed at the feline standing next to him and ran his palm along his body, from the top of his head to the base of his stubby tail. “Wanna go outside..?”

“No, no.” In the kitchen, Rumlow slid off the chair and stood up. “Don’t let him go outside. Not right now.”

Unable to comprehend, the teen frowned. “Why? He’s harmless.”

Rumlow began stacking the dishes on top of each other and snorted. “There’re a lot of birds, squirrels and stuffs outside at about this time. He terrorizes them. I feel sorry for them.”

Peter thought it was very weird for Rumlow to say that. He looked down and saw Tabby’s longing look as he stared outside through the glass panel.

“I’ll look after him.” The teen caved and slid open the door, ignoring Rumlow’s disapproving noise. Besides, the feline obviously needed to exercise more if the diet success rate was next to zero.

One step outside, Peter felt his heart skip two beats when he was met with the view of the grass, the view of the orchard that radiated outward from the patio. He inhaled. Once. Twice. The scent of citrus and grass and leaves and water rose from his surrounding with the aid of the gentle breeze, strong in his nostril.

Off their accord, his legs brought his forward, step by step. And soon, orange trees surrounded him. Tabby was by his side all the time and Peter kept him in his line of sight. He smiled to himself just by watching the feline sniffing at the grass and chasing after the dry leaves. The cat sure knew how to entertain himself.

Peter lifted his head to study the sky above him. It was clear today, most what his eyes could see. Where it wasn’t, it was because of the patches of clouds here and there, gliding gently across it. As they filtered the sunray, blocking it out for certain duration, they turned the scenery before him into patchworks. Beautiful patchworks, one piece at a time since the clouds was on constant movement. 

On the ground, the teen could see scatter of oranges here and there. Some were already rotten, some were still edible. He felt sorry for them. So he picked the nearest one, brushed the dirt away and sunk his nail into the leathery skin, tearing it apart. Usually, he would peel the skin along with the white part with a knife, but he could only make do with his fingers, leaving patches of it. He pulled a section forcefully and popped the flesh into his mouth.

Sweet juice burst and filled his mouth immediately and Peter moaned, savouring the every bit of flavour the orange had to offer. The teen had a good feeling that today was going to be a good day.

... Until he saw Tabby three feet away, with a portion of bird’s wing sticking out of his closed mouth. It wiggled.

Peter chocked on his orange, coughed and screamed.

Inside the cabin, by the sink, Rumlow’s whole body tensed when he heard the scream, only to unfurl a moment later. He could only muster a flat expression by then. He recognized that scream. It wasn’t an alarm for intruders entering the land.

It was just the cat.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The town was half an hour drive from the cabin, with no obvious, animatic interaction in between them. But it was different. Though the stillness was obvious, Peter didn’t sense tension. Not like that moment when they were driving back from visiting his mother. That time, Peter could barely breath. That time, Peter felt restricted, constraint even.

Now, he felt more relaxed, almost as if he could melt into the chair. Through sideway glances, he noticed Brock’s shoulders were unfurled as he kept his hands on the steering wheel, gaze forward. But something was lingering in the man’s mind. It probably wasn’t an earth-shattering context, but it was there. The teen could tell it was making the cogwheels in Rumlow’s head moved in rhythmic manner.

Still, Peter appreciates the scenery outside. The greenness, the lack of traffic, the lack of noises. Back in the city, the scheduled heavy traffic gave everyone a reason for wanting to slap the dude that didn’t know how to use the signal or cutting the cue. Hah, it gave everyone a reason to smack at the traffic light for simply stood the and being miserable to the angry, adrenaline filled road users. Music was reverberating throughout the entire car in low hum. It sounded like a blues, or jazz, Peter couldn’t really tell. But he liked it.

The inside of the car was nice too. Used, clearly, second hand, probably, but the Chevrolet truck was in a pristine condition. Good millage, responsible owner with no miniscule whirlwind ever going on inside. Brock had money, from the time he was in STRIKE and surely being a HYDRA—formerly—agent paid plenty, more than enough for Brock to purchase newer model.

The black SUV in Avengers tower didn’t count. Tony wanted to be everyone’s sugar daddy, so the new SUV was forced into Rumlow’s reluctant hands.

And Peter being Peter, he was unable to stop himself from wondering still.

Note to himself: must investigate further. Maybe. Later.

Peter temporarily dismissed the question when the town entered his line of vision. Rumlow wasn’t joking when he said it wasn’t big. But, clearly they have enough shops to provide the town’s people everyday need.

Besides, there’s library. So, Peter was already a happy camper.

They pulled over right in front of the library entrance.

“I’m going to the hardware.” Rumlow shifted the gear to neutral. “Be back here in half an hour?”

Peter nodded quickly, detached the seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “Yeah, okay.”

He stepped out and closed the door behind him, inhaling deep. It was warm today and Peter could feel the heat reflected by the asphalt under him. Behind him, the truck hasn’t moved. When the teen turned to look back, only then Rumlow drove away towards the direction which he assumed to be the hardware store. The teen kept the truck in his sight, not letting go until it rounded the corner.

For few moments, Peter didn’t move from his spot, still standing on the walkway. He pinched the hem of his t-shirt. Although people who passed by didn’t as much gave him a once over, the teen still felt out of place. He felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. Last time he had this feeling was during his first day in high school. The newness of everything, it roused the smallest part of anxiousness hiding in the dark corner of his mind.

All of sudden, Peter felt like he was seven all over again.

But when the teen stepped inside the library, the unholy sensation disappeared.

There was always something about library that calmed his senses ever since he was at young age—the quietness, the sound of scribbling pen against the paper, the little noise of papers moved against each other, the smell of old books, the sight of single tone carpeted floor. He appreciated all of them. Here, he didn’t feel out of place. Here, he felt a bit closer to home. Here, was row after row of his longings. Another thing about library he liked was that Peter could take about anything from any rack, something he didn’t own, and doesn’t have to feel guilty about it.

“Excuse me.” Peter greeted the librarian sitting at the front desk. She was somewhat in her mid-thirty with shoulder length, wavy auburn hair. And when she looked up, the teen decided that she had a nice, gentle smile.

“Good morning.” She was still holding the pen in between her fingers.

“I want to apply for library card.”

The librarian didn’t entertain him. Not just yet. Instead, she put down her pen, laced her fingers together as she rested her elbows on the desk and studied Peter, taking in everything and she sure didn’t hide her intention. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school, young man?”

Mirth of curiosity reflected in her dark green eyes. It made Peter anxious all over again.

“I’m not from here.” Peter met her eyes, not wanting her to think that he was lying while his fingers traced the edge of the counter unconsciously. “I’m not well.”

“Not well?”

“I had an accident. My doctor…” The teen thought of T’Challa. Well, he was no doctor, but he helped him with his wellbeing. “Well, he said it’s better if I take some time off, away from everything. So my dad took me here. It’s nice and quiet here and I can rest my head.”

A streak of understanding mapping her expression. “Oh, I know this. PTSD is it? Or some kind of depression?”

A sort of relief passed through his form. “Yeah, something like that.” Peter smiled softly, watching as she poured some water into the paper cup from the water dispenser behind her.

“Here, have some water.” The librarian urged the cup into Peter’s unprepared hands. God, she must have thought that Peter was going to pass out anytime soon from a tiniest stress.

Peter, still in command of his common sense, made a quick, non-obvious sniff of his water. Just in case. And took a sip when nothing was amiss with the water nor the cup. “Thanks.”

“Wait,” She paused, now holding on a piece of paper that appeared to be a form. “The guy who dropped you off just now, he’s your father?”

Peter didn’t know which guy the librarian was referring to. As far as he was concerned, there was only one who dropped him off just know. So, Peter only nodded and took another fill of his water.

“You’re Barnes’ kid? I didn’t know he has a son.”

This time, the water didn’t flow down through the proper channel. That only made Peter chocked on his own water.

“Are you alright?!” Quickly, she handed few plies of tissues towards Peter. That attracted quite the attention as now, few heads looked up and few eyes shifted towards their direction. When there was nothing more interesting other than a teenage boy snorting water through his nose, they went back to their books and studies.

Discombobulated, Peter accepted the tissue and covered his mouth, a thin mist covering his eyes. His throat hurt.

“Sorry.” The teen coughed and cleared his throat. He blinked, trying the wave the thin mist away. “Wrong channel. You were saying who...?”

“Leo Barnes.” She repeated, handing Peter another cup of water. This time, to sooth his throat. “You guys are staying at the cabin in the orchard. You dad came to the town all the time, buying things to work on the cabin.”

Peter wanted to deny and say no. But disturbed as he was, the teen was quick to catch whatever was transpiring here. So, he nodded, hiding the guilt poorly behind the small cup.

“Yeah. I’m Peter.” He swallowed. “Peter Barnes.”

She nodded and smiled again. “How’s it going?”

“… what?”

“The cabin.”

A form was pushed forwards, along with a pen. Peter looked down and noticed that it was an application form.

“It’s great.” He began filling in the particular, by writing ‘Peter’. Then when he noticed that the next letter was much akin to ‘R’, Peter started, stopped, extended the tip and began writing ‘Barnes’ instead. “He’s working on the front porch now. And pretty much everything at the front.”

They exchanged small words afterwards as Peter continued filling in the rest of the particular. Mainly on the oranges and the previous owner of their current cabin. He then slid the form back to the librarian before she went on keying his information on the computer and into their system. It didn’t take long. Because, after five minutes, a light green library card was handed to the teen.

“Thanks.” With a thin smile, Peter cleared his throat. “So, I’m just going to look around…” He drawled and pointed towards random direction behind him.

Without waiting for any comeback, the teen quickly sauntered further into belly of the library

The library wasn’t as big as Peter was used to back in Queen where hundreds of books occupied the shelves that stretched from ceiling to floor and lined the entire room row to row. Still, no matter what scale this was, library was still a library. Just by being inside made him felt like he had just stepped into a treasure cove. It still left him breathless and almost giddy.

All the books were sectioned by genre. For fiction collections, the teen noticed they were sectioned again by author. His legs brought him deep further, in between the bookcases, fingers unconsciously trailing the book spine as walked.

Library was a library. Peter would always know what to look for.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Half an hour later, Peter stood outside the library door. Almost, considering he’s five minutes early. He found himself two books. One was science-technology genre—Life 3.0, and another one was a graphic novel titled ‘The Old Guard’. He once saw Michelle read it in class—during lesson he might add— and was engrossed with it, so Peter figured he might give it try. Both of them he considered as light readings, something he rarely would pick. But considering his situation, light was something his body would appreciate much. He wasn’t sure how long he would be staying here, but Peter could always go back here for more books.

The sound of tire scrapping against the pavement pulled him away from the books in his hands. Peter looked up at the familiar Chevrolet truck stopping right in front him. Wood boards and a couple of something that looks like paint cans were among things loaded into the open cargo. He wanted to inspect further, but decided to it later when they’ve returned. Instead, he opened the door and climbed inside, the books tucked on his laps.

Rumlow looked like he was about to ask something, but Peter was faster. “Is there a place that sell jars here?”

“Jars..?”

“Small jars.” He repeated. “Like those jam jars.” When Rumlow was still giving him that odd look, the teen quickly added, “I kind of have ideas what to do with the oranges.”

Next to him, the former STRIKE commander nodded slowly. “There’s depot here.” He said, pulling the truck out from the roadside.

Peter sighed slowly. Bullet successfully dodged. For now.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

“Do you really think that things would turn out better had I brought you with me after your mother died?”

If Peter thought he could dodge the rest of the bullets, clearly the Wakanda’s medicine had punched his common sense into oblivion. Clearly, it did more other than tending his well-being.

Right now, the bullet was there, heading his way with no room left to dodge and kick about. Peter thought it was unfair. He hated being caught red-handed, right after Rumlow had turned off the engine and parked the truck in front of the house. It felt like he was caught by May with his hand inside his pants. Metaphorically speaking. Not that May has ever caught him doing indecent act or by anyone in that matter.

May caught him changing into his Spider-man suit in the living room didn’t count.

The teen swallowed, feeling his lips falling into thin lines. Rumlow could have chosen to catch him off-guard somewhere else, but the man seemed content with the idea of catching him while they were still inside the truck. Dick move, he wanted to say. But that would be simply over rude.

“If this is about what I said—”

“Do you?” Rumlow pressed, now facing him fully. When did he take off his seat belt..?

Peter sucked on his lower lip, fingers fiddling and pinching the corner of his book cradled to his chest. The difficulty level of the question wasn’t on the science rocket level, thousand miles below. Wasn’t on calculus level either where the teen could answer with his head in his little far away headspace. But it involved sentiments, his past, their past and their family dynamic.

It wasn’t numbers. It was a hard question.

And it took him a moment to get his tongue and lips to work beyond their vegetative state.

“Sometimes.” Peter finally rolled his answer around his tongue. “Sometimes, I thought about my life if I were to live with you. The possibilities, the differences.” He then leaned back against the seat, the books now back on his laps. “I probably wouldn’t be with the math club. Maybe now, I’m one of those cool kids in the sport club. I would probably do a lot travelling and dye my hair blonde.”

That thought almost made him smile to himself.

“But if I think about it again, I wouldn’t know May. Or wouldn’t have met Ned or good at Physics and Calculus. Ned’s not a cool kid and stuff, but he’s good friend. And Spider-man, and Avengers. I wouldn’t know any of them, less like be any of them. They’re good things.”

Slowly, the teen turned to look at Rumlow. “And I have those good things now. In this moment. Sure I could have other things, different life and be other person.” He met the former HYDRA agent’s open stare. Rumlow didn’t say anything. He just listened, like he was drinking his words in piece meal.

“But rather wondering about things that may or may not happen and the possibilities, I want to focus on the good things I have right now.”

When silence stretched in between them, Peter somehow had expected it.

“I’m sorry… about the weird things I said back there. I just,” He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Everything was hurting and—and I was scared I guess. I wanted to get angry and I wanted to blame someone.” Peter could feel his voice trailed, barely keeping it above whisper.

Rumlow looked down, like he was thinking. Then he too, leaned his back against the seat. “It’s fine.” A small sigh escaped his lips. “I’d thought it’s about time for someone to bring it up.”

Though the man wasn’t looking squarely at him, it was obvious Rumlow was addressing Peter.

“Rogers brought it up. Barton brought it up. I expected that.” Tapping his fingers along the steering wheel, Rumlow was struggling for words. “But when you brought it up, it really threw me off. I thought I was prepared.” He shook his head slowly. “But I wasn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it, even if I wanted to.”

“It’s out now.” Peter heard himself saying. “So it’s okay, right..?”

Something magical or extraordinary must had happened just now. Because even though the engine was turned off, the windows and doors were shut tight and Peter must have been breathing carbon dioxide, he felt oddly calm. Last time they were both inside a car, his nerves had ran wild, all over the place. Some must had fainted or played dead when they ran into each other. The teen wouldn’t know.

If there was one thing he was certain of during that time, was that the experience was unpleasant.

Now, it was anything but unpleasant.

“Yeah.” Rumlow finally said and reached for the door handle. “It’s good now.”

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Peter later found Rumlow outside working on the porch. It was five past two and they had lunch a couple hours ago—chicken salad sandwich—and the teen was feeling a bit sluggish from the effect of the medicine. The warm afternoon breeze didn’t help. Even Tabby has made himself comfortable and napping, sprawled on the window seat and it took every ounce of Peter’s sheer will not to poke and prod the rounded, exposed belly.

In the end, the teen caved and ran his fingers through the thick, dense coat of Tabby’s belly. But he quickly leaped away, faster than lighting, when the feline stirred and made a complaint noise. Peter failed to recall moving ever this fast even when chasing crooks.

He then made a beeline towards the door and slid the glass open only to close it back behind him. For a while, the teen just stood there, uncertain with his own agenda, before stepping few steps to his left and leaned back against the wall. Hands by his side, Peter looked down at his bare feet, wiggling his toes a bit.

On the deck, as Rumlow crouching down, the man had his working gloves on and utility belt lopped around his waist. With slight interest, Peter watched as the man marked multiple ‘x’, noting that all of them were about 1-inch to the inside of the edge of the board. When he aligned the screw and cordless gun on top of the surface, Rumlow positioned his body so that his weight was behind the drill before he drove the screw straight into the board, not stopping until it was flushed with the top of surface. He then absent-mindedly swept the dust away with his gloved hand.

Peter couldn’t help himself to wonder if SHIELD—or HYDRA—ever held carpentry class for their agents.

Rumlow took notice of him and his bare feet. He looked up and said, “Careful. These haven’t been treated.” He was referring to the newly done floor sections Peter was currently had his feet planted.

Instead of moving away, the teen just stood there, no words falling from his lips as he watched Rumlow continued to work on the next screw.

“Why do tell people that your name is Leo Barnes?”

Still leaning against the wall, Peter flinched when the gun slipped off the screw head and went straight into the board. It left an ugly splinter on it. That certainly couldn’t be use.

For the first time, Rumlow missed.

Suddenly, the teen felt nervous with his own idea of catching Rumlow off guard while the man was working with tools. He could have caught the man over bread and chicken salad, but later decided to postpone the timeframe. Dick move, Peter.

When the man looked up, much to Peter’s relief, he didn’t appear angry. Just startled, and apologetic..?

“Sorry.” Rumlow looked at screw gun in his hand. It was then Peter realized that the man was apologizing for the sudden movement which has caused slight alarmed in his physiology.

“I, uh,” Now he was addressing the question, placing the gun down on the floor before bracing his arm against his knee. “The name just came up out of nowhere.”

Now there was no need to halt the conversation, Peter pressed in. He was already in the water, might as well paddle his way through it. “You could have told me. I mean, I almost wrote different surname.”

“We do have different surname.”

Peter blinked, then kept the silence in between them.

“Did you write a different name?”

More like a curiosity, rather than a real question. It made Peter to pinch his lips together while his mind travelled back to the library. He didn’t want to tell Rumlow that he almost wrote the capital ‘R’ when filling the form. Even Peter wasn’t delirious enough to pull the hand of the ‘P’ by pure mistake. He couldn’t tell what his hand was thinking at that time.

Once, Peter shrugged his shoulders, not meeting Rumlow’s eyes.

“I kind of understand ‘Leo’, but why ‘Barnes’?” The teen pressed further, steering the conversation by kicking the ball into Rumlow’s court.

His hand that wasn’t on his knee went up to rub the back of his neck. “Like I said, it just came up.”

Even Peter didn’t miss the uncertainty in Rumlow’s voice.

Peter’s eyes were down as well, staring at the lines and swirled of the boards just above his toes. “Am I in danger?”

In instant, the former HYDRA agent snapped his head up. Peter followed him and met his gaze half way.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Rumlow said like it was a promise. It was thick in his voice. It was in his eyes. It was in his body.

Giving himself an ample time to absorb the answer, Peter went quiet. The sudden gush of warm breeze lifted the fallen leaves on the ground, only to have them back on it a moment later. It shook the tree branches and the nests gently with it’s force. The scent of ripe citrus rode the breeze as well, weaving in between them and Peter inhaled softly.

“How about you?” He asked. “Is something going to happen to you?”

Rumlow’s jaws moved again. He exhaled, sounding more like a sigh. “I’ll be fine.”

His gaze was now fixated on the orchard. No, not at the orchard specifically. More towards up ahead—the clear sky, so blue and so bright as though it was freshly marble polished. Maybe it was the sky. Maybe it was the scenery before him—the orchards, the grass. Maybe it was Peter’s imagination. But something was clearly pulling Rumlow’s emotions apart.

“If something does happen, can’t say I don’t see it coming.” The soft voice made it sounded like Rumlow was talking to himself as the man slipped the drill into the holster attached to his belt. he then stood up, straightened his body and walked away, towards the working table.

While he watched Rumlow’s retreating back, off their own volition, by his hip, Peter felt his nails dug into the wooden surface of the wall behind him.

Even if Rumlow expected it, even if he was fine with the idea incoming assault. Peter didn’t share the same sentiment.

Not. At. All.

**\--To be Continued--**


End file.
